Long Shorts Poems
Long Shorts Poems. Below are the most popular long Shorts by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Shorts poems by poem length and keyword.
Last minute invitation to a weekend getaway.
Caught by surprise at first you're just not quite sure what to say.
But given time you realize that you could use a break.
So you accept and then start thinking what do I have to take.
Ok, I guess I think I better go and take a shower.
And then I start to wonder 'bout the weather hour by hour.
The morning's getting cooler but it still get's pretty warm.
But wouldn't you know it, that next day that was not the norm.
So I put on my normal shorts with a bit warmer top.
But over night the temperatures began to really drop.
And in the morn came a brisk breeze that made me want to dance.
To just stay warm as my friend said, you should have worn your pants.
So on we went pursuing the festivities we sought.
We stopped and talked to someone else to see just what they thought.
There were old cars and booths to shop where we could spend our money.
We always like to buy their bread and hopefully some honey.
But given that I am fair skinned and atmospheric conditions.
It never fails that the one thing that should have been my mission.
Was the one thing that I forgot to keep my skin from burning.
Yes, forgetting sunscreen is a lesson that I seem to keep on learning.
I remembered my sun glasses and to take care of the cat.
Then got some snacks and ice and water and even got my hat.
And with any good all day outing, I remembered my lawn chair.
But what I needed most of all was to protect my skin so bare.
The one time that you really need it, is the one time you forget.
And now as I look in the mirror I'm filled with such regret.
But surely it just goes to show no matter how you try.
The one thing that you always forget is the one that you can't buy.
Note: This was a small town event and there was no place to buy sunscreen. :/ Nearest town, 8 miles, and our car was on display. :) lol
Sex Advice For Men
Wear double rubbers 24 hours a day
Don’t have sex in boxer shorts
If your woman is pretty, do it in the light
If she is ugly, do it in the dark
If she is so so, dim the lights and pray that it’s ok
Bazookas are too tight for a vagina
Dynamite is dangerous
Never open up an umbrella inside of her
It is bad luck
Erotica has a time and place
We all know that salty but not unpleasant taste
So remember to brush your teeth and gargle
And say grace before and after every meal
Use butter in bed but never margarine
Peanut butter and whipped cream are allowed
Turpentine is prohibited
Never ride your wife like she’s a horse
Unless you saddle her first of course, to avoid divorce
The best advice to give in these holey matters is
Check for all the right body parts
If there’s too much apparatus down under
In the lower extremities
She’s a he
Never have sex with animals with or without your zoo shots
Sex with one woman at a time is advised
You don’t always have to wear a tie
Unless you intend to marry
When you take her on a date you have to wait
When she turns red, push the green button, (cash)
If that doesn't work, use the jumper cables or cable TV
Take her dancing, spin her around
It’s like rotating the tires on your car
Women with athletic skills and acrobatics are the best
Stay away from girls without a pulse
It’s the same as having sex alone or something worse
It snowed last night, first fall of the year.
Taking out the trash,
there I am, dozing in a garden swing set
deep within July.
Mother of pearl eyes
above the clouds…it could be another year.
July in a London park
lying next to your soft brown hair
wisps of humid gentleness in a public place.
Snow falls onto my eyelids.
The trash is from Madrid
there are straw birds and the ruins
of several cathedrals in it.
It should be heavier
but the Iberian condors add a weightlessness
to all things too heavy to bear
across a backyard asphalt.
The chill bones on the swing set rattle,
icicles drip from blue eye sockets.
You are singing in the kitchen again,
coral lips savoring what you have yet to cook.
A skein of geese are crossing over
a heaped pile of clouds and frozen spires.
Reclining shorts and a T
rustle in a summer breeze, then freeze.
Just taking out something
to send it away
takes many years of scratch
and scrabble,
when you get there
it could be the time or the season
discarding your lost days
or you may have miscalculated
the accumulation
that gathers around the beginning of December
when the snow comes early.
When did those girls of childhood disappear,
Those wearing shorts, summer tans, jelly smears.
Who, loving paper dolls, hours of fun,
sported Band-Aids on knees like ev'ry one!
Those girls loving mysteries, Kick the Can,
roller skates, sleep-overs, movie star fans;
playing dolls, bicycling in soft moonlight.
They're gone forever: grew up overnight.
Idyllic summer days, lightning at night;
telling ghost stories that gave awful fright!
Strawberry shortcakes, bigger than our eyes:
disappeared joys that our lives once comprised.
A long-lost time: childhood's magical place;
gone to make room for our children's embrace.
Wake up to the 60's in Miami, northern folks praying for the sun
Ice-cold winds cutting, bundle up like it’s a blizzard snowbirds make fun
Nip of Cuban coffee to stay warm, sit around the fire to warm our hands
The frosty chill of a winter night, decide to run along the beach sands
Evening walks on lincoln road on south beach icy breeze blowing
Runny nose, watery eyes as the whipping wind flowing
Icy cold mornings, hot afternoons chill evening flows
Northern snowbirds travel to Miami to escape blast of snows
Miami an international city with a short winter season
In depth of holidays flip-flops, shorts, bikinis; sunscreen is the reason
A sweater and shorts complete a chilly night
Miami skyline on a winter night is breathless in its own right
International cuisine dinner on south beach while cool tropical evening
I see the photo and I am there,
taking the picture of my friends at
happy hour on Mabel’s porch,
Penny smiling, bare feet on railing board,
Mabel holding up her cocktail glass,
Jeannie reading a book, and Sue
just grinning for the camera.
Shorts, bathing suits, coverups,
damp sun-bleached hair order of the day.
I smell coconut sunscreen,
join the chatter and laughter,
discussing who was at the beach,
water temperature, jokes
about the wind blowing sand
into the snacks, the seagull
that snatched a ham sandwich
right from Jeannie’s hand.
The nerve of that sly bird!
Friends and neighbors passing,
walking to and from the beach,
waving, stopping to chat,
sometimes joining the fun,
every day after the beach,
before dinner, with maybe crabs
or fish caught earlier in the day,
served from the kettle or grill
onto paper plates, eaten with gusto.
I’ve moved away, to Nebraska,
nearer to our daughter and family.
Someone else lives in my beloved
Victorian with its own wide porch,
across the street from Mabel’s.
Mabel is gone now, the house
sold, different people there -
louder voices, louder music. No more
Danny Boy, Mabel’s favorite.
He will try to outguess my age.
It is as easily done as guessing the number of seeds inside a melon.
I stand still, thinking he will never get anywhere near it.
He is a handsome man, a carnival barker.
I am the mother of three daughters, dressed in short shorts and knee socks.
I think I look 17.
He looks deeply into my eyes.
I do not flinch.
28 he says.
The state fair crowd goes nuts screaming at him.
They are calling him all kinds of mean things.
I put my hand straight up in the air.
They wait, wondering.
I am 28, I announce.
The yelling stops. They scurry off quickly.
The man smiles at me. I wonder at his magic.
You walk along the sandy beach
And you taste the salted air
You step on very tiny shells
As the wind blows through your hair
The ocean splashes on your feet
As your baking in the sun
You see a ship in the horizon
And children having fun
Surfers surfing atop the waves
And swimmers swim and float
Beach balls and sand castles on the shore
And fisherman in their boat
Lifeguards whistling at drifters at sea
And whistles at girls from the boys
Pigeons and seagulls and volleyball players
Creating some of the noise
Umbrellas, blankets, and burning tanners
And musclemen flexing their chests
Swimsuits, short shorts, and girls in bikinis
Showing off some of their breasts
Boardwalk walkers' walk into arcades
And they play the pinball machines
The teen-age gamers thinking they're cool
Wearing their cut-off and fringy new jeans
Pizza slice vendors sell sausage and peppers
With onions and fries on the side
More vendors sell ice-cream and cotton candy
And funnel cakes and zeppoli's- deep fried
So, today or tomorrow maybe go to the beach
Walk the boardwalk or just walk in the sun
When you go to the beach on a sunshiny day
No doubt- you'll get a tan and have fun!
Written By: D. Collins 1/4/19
We are here for a reason. To shoot for the gold.
Showing Katrina survivors still have a soul.
They have to play us or slay us in our backyard.
Or, gain firsthand knowledge of “Goin’ Hard”.
We host this party with one intention in mind.
To be the last man standing at the finish line.
What ever team comes here, is rolling the dice.
“I guarantee you, yeah”. Our fans “ain’t nuthin nice”.
Backing our Saints, we are coming in force.
And, we “Refugees” ain’t taking no shorts.
With Tupac conviction, the hunger is there.
Bring the Lombardi Trophy into the lion’s lair.
Our only mission is to bring respect to the “Boot”.
And, that’s exactly what a Lombardi would do.
So, play us or slay us under the Superdome.
There’s nothing we’d like better carrying home.
The joy of birth, the growing up,
leads us to adore our lovely babies.
But not, alas, without the toils of life.
Because we experience a lack of sleep,
contend with baby vomit,
or idiotically putting on his boxer shorts
completely the wrong way around.
Yet all is part of being loving
to a newborn child. Sometimes
I get the weird, unworldly feeling
that I'm the worst grandpa of all.
Perhaps it's just that I'm getting old.
Try lifting the chubby scamp a little while
and oh my poor back simply aches.
And if he cries I must find out
what ails the urchin, my dearest pet.
A dirty nappy? Someone take care,
mother or granny, it's their job I'm afraid.
But if it's a bottle of milk he wants,
or nibbling a few small pieces of cereal,
then I am game. Bring on the glorious food.
And when he sleeps, I'm just in heaven,
contemplating the profound miracle of life.
For though he's not directly mine,
he's the continuation of my genetic line.
And so I worry if he coughs or wheezes,
or falls whilst crawling, adding to his bruises.
Awake he's smiling, a gurgling bundle of joy
that makes me proud, he's Nicholas my boy.
NB Nicholas, my grandson, is now 18 years old, studying dentistry at University (first in class) and has a driver's licence too.