Long Shirley Poems
Long Shirley Poems. Below are the most popular long Shirley by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Shirley poems by poem length and keyword.
Three Score and Fifteen Years Ago
By Franklin Price
11/14/2020
Three score and fifteen years ago
I was born upon this earth
Joined a family of eight,
Was the ninth, for what it's worth
Four sisters and two brothers
A mother, father there for me
I was to be the last of them
That nevermore would be
Was brought home to my siblings
Who were shown I was a boy
They were told it was not Christmas
That I was not a little toy
Spread of ages, ten long years
Stuart Taylor to begin
Then, Nancy Ruth and Shirley Lou
Stopping then, would be a sin
Earl Joseph, Laura Gertrude
Were the next ones in the game
Judith Carol just before me
Franklin Arthur is my name
Brought home to Merritt Island
Yes, the one of lunar lore
Was then a growing citrus place
Barely had a country store
We had no city water
No AC then, you know
No TV there for watching
Listened to the radio
Milk brought by the milkman
Port Canaveral had no cruise
Truman was the president
The local paper brought the news
Many years have gone by
Helped shoot man to the moon
My father and my mother gone
Some siblings, way to soon
Nancy Ruth and Laura Gertrude
And myself are still around
They're now octogenarians
Five more years and I'll be crowned
My life has been exceptional
The best wife for fifty years
In seven days it's fifty-one
Can still remember that from here
Left High School in sixty four
Sixty- eight in Vietnam
Sixty-nine sent man off to the moon
It's great to be the who I am
Married, November, sixty-nine
To my wife and daughter too
They were the rocks within my life
For the things that I would do
Involved with start up ventures
Traveled all around the globe
Collected hotel ashtrays
Lots of shampoo and a robe
Had my own small business
A little longer than a score
Rode on Harley cycles
Three hundred thousand miles and more
Rode all the lower forty-eight
Three provinces above
A thousand miles in Africa
All of these with my true love
So you see it's been a great life
And I'm only seven- five
I got up this fine morning
It's still great to be alive
Friends and family, who read this
And know of these things I say
Know you helped to make it great
As I traveled on the way
Here's a toast to all of us
And the passed days since our birth
I'm sending love to all of you
For all that may be worth
Silly Billy had no fear, he drowned it in a case of beer.
Handy Andie so adept, kept so busy, she never slept.
Dirty Donna did what you wanna, she lived just down the street.
You didn't have to ask her twice, she was so nice and very sweet.
Hairy Larry all alone, made the women grimace and groan.
Very scary in his approach, girls would crush him like a roach.
Steady Betty, always ready with what ever it took.
Found a way to save the day, be it by hook or crook.
Stan the man does what he can no matter what it takes.
Always appalled by what has happened, then says for goodness sakes.
Gabby Abby giggles and talks with nary a concern.
I wonder if there'll ever be a time she'll ever learn.
Bob the slob wouldn't get a job, he did nothing all day.
He looked a mess, and yes I guess, there's nothing left to say.
Chatty Patty talked so much, she developed lock jaw.
You'd think that that would slow her down, but nah.
Dorky Doug had quite the mug, he looked a little askew.
When he'd greet you on the street, you didn't know what to do.
Nick the stick was very quick, always on the go.
He never walked, he always ran, the word slow, he didn't know.
Guilty Milty quite the guy. He never looked you in the eye.
If you caught him at his game, instead of shame, he'd rather die.
Ditzy Mitzy, not a clue, in her ear, you'd see clear through.
Sandy Sandy, on the beach, the young men she would beseech.
Their young minds she couldn't reach, but that's not what she tried to teach.
Loser Lenny always played, what it cost, he never weighed.
Didn't know when to walk away, should have left, but always stayed.
Pervy Peter made skin crawl, I'm guessing his was pretty small.
You felt like you'd catch a disease, even if he would just sneeze.
Surly Shirley, not too girly, and not very nice.
You can ask her once, a question, but don't ask her twice.
Bendy Wendy in the breeze, did everything down on her knees.
The young boys she'd always please, when they would leer up in the tree's.
Kent the gent, his kindness spent, decided it was time.
To let them know just what he meant, but still did it in rhyme.
Holy Holly, quite contrite, prayed sincerely every night.
Oh, good golly, how she yearned for things to be just right.
In the interest of keeping your interest, I think I'll stop it here.
Like Billy up in the first line, I think I'll have a beer. :)
A Saturday morning in June on a sunny day,
three hundred villagers were in the town square today.
For two hours, all the children, each man and his wife,
made a choice amongst themselves to sacrifice a life
While the grass was growing green with the flowers in bloom,
one person in town would soon be encountering doom.
Some big piles of stones were gathered up by every boy;
Bobby Martin, the Jones boys, and Dickie Delacroy.
As mixed conversations percolated all around,
Mr. Summers and the black box were soon to be found.
This object was very old and showed much splintering,
after being used many years for this offering
Mr. Summers asked the town for a new edition.
They turned him down, not wanting to break with tradition.
With much of the ritual forgotten and not clear,
little slips of paper were placed in the box each year
Old Man Warner, the senior citizen living here
said to Mr. Adams who was standing very near:
“Seventy-seven years I’ve been participating
in this lottery for which everyone is waiting!
I tell you there’s no other way; it’s needed in June.
We sacrifice life for the corn to be heavy soon”.
Mr. Summers called by name, heads of each family;
all in alphabetical order from A to Z.
Every head of household chose individually;
beginning with Adams, and ending with Zanini.
When every man had a slip of paper in his hand,
“Open up” said Mr. Summers with modest demand.
“The paper with a black pencil mark will indicate
its holder is the sacrifice we all designate”
Along came Bill Hutchinson’s wife Tessie running late;
shocked to see her husband holding the paper of fate.
Mr. Summers asked “How many in the family?
Bill replied “Five. Three children, my wife Tessie, and me.”
Mr. Summers took the slip and put in four blanks more;
back into the black box after opening its door.
Then each of the Hutchinsons was told to reach inside.
The one holding the paper with the mark would decide.
Mr. Summers checked the papers and said with his voice:
“We have our sacrifice! Tessie Hutchinson’s our choice!”
“It isn’t fair!” Yelled Tessie, crying loud and frantic.
The people grabbed stones with Tessie running in panic.
They all caught up with her in the middle of a field,
and stoned her to death without any apparent yield!
Based on the short story "The Lottery" by the late Shirley Jackson
~Survive~
I want to tell you a story about a lady I knew
And some things in life she had to go through
Trying to survive in a world that can be cold
So I’m making sure that her Journey is told
As a child she grew up in a broken home
Spending most her youth feeling so alone
As a young teen she was sexually abused
Leaving her physically and mentally confused
Then she married a man at a very early age
From a different country so her mom was enraged
But they were in love so she didn’t really care
Not knowing in time this would be her nightmare
There were 3 children born into this family
They looked normal as far as the eye could see
Yet her husband began to constantly drink
Until his mind could no longer reasonably think
This became a daily ordeal that kept repeating
Then she eventually discovered he was cheating
But the alcohol made him show no remorse
So before long they separated and got a divorce
Soon her kids grew up and the grandchildren came
And it made her happy grandma was her new name
But at times her past made her depressed and sad
So some days were good and some days were bad
Then there came a day that I won’t ever forget
When a disease called cancer gave her a hard hit
She lost her job and everything that she owned
And her body felt like it was pummeled and stoned
Less than a year of this fight had taken its toll
But a light began shining from within her soul
For she found the strength of completely knowing
When this battle was over where she was going
Now all wars finally end and Shirley passed away
But lessons she gave us live in our hearts yet today
So I pass on this message she eternally planted
Be grateful for this life we each have been granted
************************************
My Mother-In-Law Shirley Cordova lost her battle with Cancer 6 years ago today on Nov 4, 2004. As I thought about her this morning, it really hit me just how much that woman helped us over the years she was still alive.
This is a poem I’d wrote dedicated to her memory. It is her life story and is included in my 8th book of poetry The Journey~Following Maps to Evermore.
She didn’t have an easy life yet fought for each precious breath until the last.
Shirley, We Love and Miss Ya BUT we also know you still visit us sometimes.
So I wanted to Thank You For Simply Being YOU- Jimmy
“i’m only happy when it rains,”
moans shirley manson when she’s backed by
butch vig & an orchestra of overdubbed
distorted guitars enhanced by sythensizers
a la trent reznor
the genius who is credited in garbage’s first album---
one doesn’t have to be a meteorologist to
think that she & her crew may be on to
something---
for the rain washes all the dirt away
the rain replenishes the earth so that it can sustain another day
when damaged endlessly by the
cruel
sun
scorching its surface & all the living things upon it
(during the spring and summer months especially, when all the idiots are
running round with nothing on & with no sunscreen, etc. to fend off
melanoma)---
the rain is what those unconventional people who
dwell in the shadows
feast on---
and who are these people?
they are the ones that choose not to smile when
everyone else does---
they are the ones that are not easily
amused---
they/we
are the ones that run out in the rainstorm &
dance naked in the cold wetness---
whipping our hair around in a rhythmic gesture
a middle finger in the air to any kind of
“creator”
that would shine its face down upon us all and
communicate
destruction with the poker face of
peace---
give us the rain when it comes
give us the floods
the hurricanes
the torrential downpour that accompanies it all
so that on the days that we aren’t struggling to swim
& struggling to float amidst the chaos
we understand how fortunate we are
to even be breathing---
so that our ever-complaining selves
die with the remnants of the wash-away
& you & i can wave goodbye to the old
selves
who thrived only for sun &
smiles
not understanding that in this pubic hair of a moment in which each of us
spend
together
on this beautiful planet
avec all the other plants & creatures who dwell with us,
that
we must savor every second
be it in sun or rain
and let it be known that the rain does so much for us
and yet is always pelted with insults & “evil” metaphor---
rain,
my friends,
is getting the bad rap---
and i don’t think i stand alone on the sideline campaigning---
there are thousands, albeit it
millions
marching for the rain to come
and keep our civilization
quenched---
news flash: without good ol’ h20 we are all dead as
doornails---
so stop worshipping the sun
&
give it up for the
rain.
releasing me - of minutes, hours, days - of being bored,
as age creeps into my bed, and what is left, is in my head
- providing nourishment for my soul – my spirit being fed
by looking glass images, images that slip through the crack
in my day dreams, my nightmares as my brain, I rack
for images, memories, experiences - that lay dormant in a stack
upon stacks - waiting to escape the boarded up shack
that has been the villages claim to justify its existence.
The grounds, the foundations, reasons to take a stance
and say yes, yes there where days when I knew romance
and as ever the fool, no one around to kick me in the pants
as all has become history, – fourteen thousand pages – turn a leaf
and you will find that this one’s life is far to empty, far to brief.
In it – between the covers of seventy-eight – can there be any relief
from all that has been laid before you ?, can there be belief ?,
in what is before your eyes, as you look into what is laid before
you, as I reach in, grab at, touch that slow closing door
with hope that it will be possible to get a glimpse of more
before my soul, my spirit, my essence takes wing, begins to soar
beyond this plane, all the pain I have known before.
In here – these lines – I feel the loss.
Upon this stone – know – I see no moss,
for on here, I offer no direction,
just many hours of histories reflection.
Empty- I feel in this alone place.
Emptiness - I see in this aged drooping face.
Where is ?, that I might seek to go ?,
to gain wisdom, to learn what I do not know
of a world of spirit, of soul, of a fine mind.
It seems to me, little hope to find
- among humanity – the true essence of woman kind
as she entombs all- such waste – leaving all behind.
Oh !, if only the fickle hand of fate
could lay upon these drooping shoulders, in these arms, a mate
that in ones darkest hours, a soft glowing light, shine
upon this old soul and in the light of day be mine
that would share on a world , not to compare
with anything like my world of despair.
The hour has passed, the rest are in decline.
The minutes that remain – with stain, are mine.
There is little I see, that will make life fine,
for the ephemeral time left to me, little will shine
through as I look into the black, storm cloud ahead
that rage, stage battles, assassinate instead
A Softer Way to Die
We live and study life
We pray that somehow
God changes his rules.
No one wants to die
No one wants to follow
Those complicated laws;
I mean no lie-ing - no steal-ing
no sex - before marriage no
Fornicating, no killing
No lust-greed or defiling the earth.
Amen.
All we can do now is try to find
" A softer way to die".
Pick your battles...
There are many ways to die.
I asked, God why?
When mom threw a
"Monkey wrench" in my world
Answering - "We all have to die"
I immediately winked at God...
Thinking to myself (not I).
Gave him a little nudge;
Sidebar God: I said to God
Adamantly "I do not want to die"
"Can you change the rules "?
I never heard back from him
On that subject.
I went to him again
God "Can you at least
Keep me with a mom-
I said "So that I won't be an
Orphan like Shirley Temple”?
He did get back to me on that
And Mom is Alive and well
Plan A. (living forever)
Still not executed.
Once again contemplating
Thoughts on how I want to die.
I could not think of a pleasant way
To die, none that seemed appealing.
Nor any options that would be fun.
hmmm, eat myself to death.
Playing chicken with the train,
Might prove thrilling.
As time grew nigh
My thoughts continued
.... On a softer way to die.
Childhood gone, middle age gone'
Old age approaching fast and furious
Destroying me like a sudden
Approaching hurricane...
This storm knocked out my lights
Memory gone now.
Forgetting my life- my loved ones
Forgetting my friends,
Children, and foes alike
Forgetting my wrongs - my sins
and accomplishments all.
Everything's gone. So, now
What do I do?... How can
I rewrite my life, Take account.
Of that which I remember not.
The realities if my existence
Has been wiped out from
The Forest Fires burning
In my mind’s eye.
Have no recordings of
Who loved me or of who
I shall never forgive.
How will I know that I ever even lived?
Taking my dark blank pages into
The afterlife- My shadowy
Existence ends. I feel no pain
I Have no thoughts,
Have nothing to contemplate.
For I have asked to live forever
Or that I die a, softer way
Forgetting to eat
Forgetting to drink-
Forgetting to swallow
Forgetting to breath...
Forgetting this life-
I close my eyes and fade away.
painlessly
© Vicki Acquah
She writes like Maya
She sings like Aretha
She dreams like Coretta
She reads like Oprah
She speaks like Barbara
She plays like Serena
She rocks like Tina
She rolls like Donna
She entertains like Diana
She cures like Maria
She paints like Edmonia
She kicks like Mia
She runs like Wilma
She throws like Lisa
She boxes like Laila
She dances like Anna
She skates like Surya
She invents like Patricia
She revolts like Angela
She influences like Condoleezza
She paints like Edmonia
She smiles like Mona Lisa
She loves like a mother
She protects like a tiger
She prays like Mother Theresa
And she cooks like momma.
Dear readers, you can add more
A natural woman is never poor
Please, beloved friends, be kind
To come up with more in your mind
She tumbles like Simone
She philosophizes like Simone
She quilts like Betsy
She laughs like Whoopi
She jokes like Leslie
She sings like Marie
She speed skates like Maame
She flies like Mae
She exercises like Gabby
She educates like Mary
She fights like Dorothy
She explores like Stephanie
She sounds like Winnie
She creates like Margaret
She dares like Harriet
She runs like Marion
She entertains like Josephine
She legislates like Maxine
She sows like Catherine
She teaches like Gwendolyn
She lifts like Ernestine
She acts like Diahann
She reports like Diane
She speaks like Michelle
She is serious like Michelle
She is strong like Althea
She is talented like Augusta
She is defiant like Cicely
She is brave like Shirley
She is normal like Marilyn
She is fearless like Maxine
She is relaxed like Rosa
She is inquisitive like Barbara
She challenges like Phyllis
She swings like Chris
She plays like Alice
She is talented like Venus
She is pretty like a flower
And she is like our mother.
A natural woman is not perfect
She deserves honor and respect
She needs love everyday
From trouble, she never runs away
Please add more to this poem
And do not curse or blaspheme
She writes like Maya
She sings like Aretha
She dreams like Coretta
She reads like Oprah
She speaks like Barbara
She plays like Serena
She prays like Mother Theresa
And she cooks like our mama.
Copyright © August 2018, Hébert Logerie, All rights reserved
Hébert Logerie is the author of several books of poetry.
Shirley, I am ?,
more than the sum of this black, cold stone – believed.
Shirley, there is more to me than I have stated – perceived.
Surely I am more than that ? Shirley, I can be retrieved
from these thoughts, these memories of, and finally be relieved
of the guilt’s, the regrets that for years, plagued my day
with all that was laid before me, what I let slip, silently away.
Thoughts of, memories, forgiveness is what I most pray
for all who, like you, my heart, my soul, my spirit did lay.
Clouds fill the skies, shadows fill the eyes, nothing more
is capable of slipping out of, or into my steeled door.
All there is, walks, talks, sunsets caressing, kissing a sandy shore,
this is all that this old soul, this young fool, Mr. cool, looks for.
Shirley, you are able to see the gate, opening into my yard,
and know, inside will grow, many an inadequate word this bard
will lay upon the page, trying to express, what comes so hard
to one who knows, a poet he is not but an infinitesimal shard
of a holographic image projected across time for you to see,
to understand, beyond what it was, I was thought to be.
Shirley, some truths come to light, casting shadows of me
on the face of space, that might reveal the real deal, set us all free.
Shirley, digging into passing time’s, shifting sand,
with a crystal clear hour glass in one’s hand,
will ? - be the test of my wasted time – stand
among the faded, veiled memories of friends,
or will I ?, having reached out and touched the ends
of all, find there is no one left who defends
what is left of my life, left of y name,
to tell or to listen to the stories of my life’s game,
or will my life come to an end as it came ?
Does it really matter ?, Shirley, it will be the same
as it has always been and will always be for me,
a vaporous image whispering past – nothing to see
of what once was, what I am, or could be
and so, off to the lands of our beginning – the sea,
where all ends up some day, to play and be free.
This one has rode the wild winds of chance,
from birth , to living life, to deaths solemn dance.
Somewhere ?, among these adventures, enjoyed some romance
that offered love, passion – communion to enhance
my days, nights, dream filled, memories hoard
the spirit in my head, this my brain is constantly feed,
and in all likelihood, will persist until I am dead.
All possibilities seem to have gone to waste
and that is all these eyes seem to be faced
with as I ran the race and with many, raced
through life without much thought and in such haste
to meet up with family, all whom I once called friend
as I reach out, reach into the ether only to end
with all these vacant words, an empty soul to send
on its journey across time and space, hoping to mend.
by offering – little more than inundated memories
to appease, lift me from the grave, past the trees
where souls, spirits hover, know the hand that frees
grief, regrets from all they rage against in tempest seas.
Oh !, what a waste it is, for me to be enraged
by the fact that I am locked in age – caged
by times passing, with all my thoughts – staged
for - who knows ? - for those who wish to see
what I was, what I am, what has become of me,
projected into space, an understanding of what be
the essence, the answers to my spirit, my soul
for anyone who cared, could come to know.
I do wonder ?, how life could be for me, if not fraught
by black clouds, heavy shrouds, battles to be fought.
I wonder how life would be ?, if upon a beam - caught
up by the light, exposed to all – what I have sought.
That light – pure, honest, can only shine upon the tale of me
in words, beliefs, feelings, that in the end, all can see
that everything written, has always been about me.
For that is who I am ( me, myself and I ) for the world can see,
as can all those who have known or tried to touch me.
For there is little more for me to show, or for you to see,
then what’s before your eyes - laid on heavy by me.
There will come a day when all is shown.
There will come a day when all is known.
There will come a day when all is shared.
There will come a day when all is cared
for, all are cared for, all will be cared for
with an open heart, no longer a closed door
to greet, just unconditional love. for evermore.
What we have here !, ?, is.
Prophecy ?
The heights of insight ? The depths of insanity ?
The curtain has finally come down on this play.
B. J. “A” 2
February 18th 2006