Long Simon Poems
Long Simon Poems. Below are the most popular long Simon by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Simon poems by poem length and keyword.
Boy,
There’s heavy fog tonight
It blends well with darkness —
The synergy between floating white cells, outside
Of our anatomy, and
Pulverized charcoal,
Thus wetting the greyness of
The breath of late November, cloudy and smoky.
With such picture, I can only think warmly of
Bridge over Troubled Water by Simon and Garfunkel.
The whole album.
Every song on it.
Best listening time is when New York City finally sleeps,
Cuddled by slow-racing, blinding fog.
Now, dew hastens to the face of the earth,
Masked by the veil of a harsh winter either
In front of us or behind us.
And that’s time for you —it comes and goes,
And still remains where it is and has always been.
At nineteen she’s beautiful—
chic and slim
Legs as smooth as a king’s javelin
She’s gentle in her speech, like the flow of a stream
With a face, the glamour of a cloudless skyline
She wears the sexiest of silk garments
And the finest of beads in the world of ornaments
We gape at her from the backyard fence
And wish we could ever afford her bride price.
But Tonya is not your ordinary character
She lives in the farthest of distant worlds
With a book on her lap she travels Miles
Dating and flirting with invisible ghosts
Sometimes she smiles as she reads, we wonder!
Who talks to books? We ask in surprise
She raises her eyebrow, distracted and irritated
She shakes her head and shuts her book.
Her father is an old man of few words
A chief ever scorning the white man’s books
He drinks his wine and plays his harp
He sings his songs of the battles he fought
Her mother is the youngest of the chief’s wives
A remarkable diviner with an air of romance
She speaks highly of Tonya and the chief is provoked
‘That pair of pumpkin heads fool of books!’
@Asiimwe Simon
Sigh of summer.
Palette of colors.
Children's joyful laughter
To a game of Simon Says.
Alison, Simon Says,
Take two steps forward.
Ford, Jump, clap, and shout.
Ford, you're out,
Simon didn't
Emerson, Simon Says,
Spin, kick, and drop.
Twirl, Pop, flop,
Down to the ground;
Emerson went
To the sound;
Owwwwwww...
From Sue that was behind him
Tears running down her swollen face
Holding herself
With a look of death
She draws in a breath
And brace herself.
I need help to the loo.
8/24/2020
I wrote a poem on the underground wall
for Emily, whenever I may find her.
Her lips are bouncy like a red rubber ball;
you can tell the world so they'll remind her.
For Emily, whenever I may find her,
Punky's dilemma has now come to an end.
I'm Richard Cory and let me remind her;
he was my brother, and I was his dear friend.
Punky's dilemma has now come to an end.
The French Twist on Bleecker Street is fighting mad.
He was my brother, and I was his dear friend.
I'll hide somewhere they can't find me, writing pad.
The French twist On Bleecker Street is fighting mad.
Her lips are bouncy like a red rubber ball.
I'll hide somewhere they can't find me, writing pad.
I wrote a poem on the underground wall.
11 syllables
Song titles by Simon & Garfunkel:
A Poem On The Underground Wall
For Emily, Whenever I May Find Her
Red Rubber Ball
You Can Tell The World
Punky's Dilemma
Richard Cory
He Was My Brother
The French Twist
Bleecker Street
Fighting Mad
Somewhere They Can't Find Me
I'm having the hardest time
Trying to find something that rhymes
With Paul Simon's counterpart
Garfunkel so I'll just call him Art
Always standing to Paul's right
Feeling left out in his life of strife
Struggling in the crossing over
This bridge of his troubled waters
Although he can sing sweet as sin
There's nowhere for Art to put his hands
While Rhyming Simon strums his guitar
Empty are the tinder hands of Art
Pockets front and pockets back
Are his only plan of attack
If he had known it'd go down this way
An instrument he would have learned to play
But as far as history goes
Who wouldn't love to have his voice
Although he can sing sweet as sin
Art Garfunkel has nowhere to put his hands
Though Art Garfunkel while singing would hold the Mic stand at times he did keep his hands in his pockets quite frequently...awkward.
“Simon, do you love me more than all these?”
“Yes Lord,” he replied while sensing a tease,
“You know that I love you.”
“Feed my lambs if you do.”
Peter then began to feel ill at ease.
“Simon, can you be sure that you love me?”
“You know that I love you, won't you agree?”
“If you will be my friend,
then to my sheep attend.”
Peter was wincing but could not foresee –
a third time Jesus would lower the bar.
“So do you like me. Can you go that far?”
Now Peter was hurting
and suddenly blurting,
“You know I love you, to ask seems bizarre.”
Again Jesus said to him, “Feed my sheep.
Now truly I tell you, once you could leap,
but when you are older
you'll lean on the shoulder
of someone who'll take you into the deep.”
John 21.15-18
Song, Copter Over My Roof, to be sung to the tune
of 'Bridge Over Troubled Waters', Simon And Garfunkel
I see eeriness Written on your face
Those fears have gotten you down
Cast them all away
They cannot stay
Yes, you've had enough
And too few understand
There's a copter over your rooftop
It will lift you up
There's a copter over your rooftop
It will lift you up
It seems all hope is gone
And you are left to fight alone
No light at the end of your tunnel
Love is there to embrace you
Love will hold you tight
When the sun hides itself
Or shadows are all you see
There's a copter over your rooftop
It will lift you up
There's a copter over your rooftop
it will lift you up
Come on golden boy
Take to the sky
Life has not passed you by
Dry the tears from your eyes
Grey clouds are lifting
Let love fly you away
Hope is alive and well
There's a copter over your rooftop
It will lift you up
There's a copter over your rooftop
It will lift you up
100321PSCtest, Change The Record, Natasha Scragg
9P
I like the heroic America of World War II;...
The America champion of good technology...
The America that freed us from the damned little mustache...
The America of Hollywood, of cinema,
Of black soul music, of Doo Wop,
Soft rock of Credence Clearwater Simon, Bob Dylan
Folklore... Woodie Guthrie, Peter Seeger,
Peter, Paul, Mary, mixed with country and blues,
Poets like Walt Withman, Emily Dickinson, Robert Frost. BEAT POETS...
The America of Frank Lloyd W. Edison, OTHERS...
Not an America with dyed hair and greed
madness for money and power...men colored
in yellow who only think of domination,
and submission of others, without thinking of brotherhood among peoples...
MAGA Make America Gentle Again
We all had homemade dresses for prom; well, nearly all of us.
This was back in 1970 while black and white Viet Nam War photos were on TV
Every night, we saw such sadness.
Prom was a reminder of childhood.
Back to the Bibbity Bobbity Boo of Cinderella.
We girls were wearing empire waist dresses.
It was the style, little bows at the top of our hair.
We were fancy poodles, primping in our two inch heels.
Not high ones like our mothers. We had already fallen off those.
Traded in our hip hugger bell bottoms that magical night
For dresses in chiffon, polished cotton, and satins.
We were so shiny, it is a miracle a murder of crows did not carry us off.
The boys had on their best suits; not tuxes.
We were in a small Iowa farm town.
Many of the couples would marry two weeks later after graduation.
I remember how hard the junior class worked to make it beautiful for us.
There were tin foil stars and crepe paper streamers everywhere.
A strobe light, and music piped in from the folk heroes of the time.
Peter Paul and Mary, Mama Cass, Simon and Garfunkel.
Sometimes a song by Cher or Bette Midler but not as often.
The food was fantastic. The company wonderful.
Our first semi-formal dinner. I have never forgotten it.
In one way it was like middle school which we called junior high.
The boys stood around talking and laughing, and the girls danced like mad.
It was such an innocent and fun time! Taking the Viet Nam War,
And the assassinations of John F. Kennedy, Robert Kennedy and Dr. Martin Luther King
Out of our minds for one magical bibbity bobbity boo night.
May 1970. A memory that uplifts me to this day.
The last time I spoke to some of my classmates.
As a few were sent to Viet Nam after graduation never to return.
I reckon I've seen about everything in my nigh four-score years.
Obnoxious teens, obnoxious elders and unpleasant Wall-Mart cashiers,
And those baggy pants with the crotch nearly reaching to the knees,
But folks with a cell phone in their ear compare to none of these!
Some people sport spiked hair dyed orange, red or green.
Others with rings piercing their lips - a weird sight to be seen!
Gorgeous ladies flaunt tacky tattoos that seem mighty *****.
Plus all of that, they have a cell phone glued to the ear!
Vexatious ringtones on some cellular phones cause me to cringe,
'Specially if in a fine bistro or church my serenity they impinge!
The "William Tell Overture" in a concert is mighty fine to hear,
But please spare me that tinny tune from the cell phone in your ear!
Some use their cell phones while driving - to all others oblivious,
Never minding that such inattention could be very injurious!
Seems to me 'twould be tricky trying to concentrate and steer,
With that consarned cellular phone sticking in the ear!
Cell phones are an improvement in communications, I suppose,
With their music, cameras, computers and a dial that glows.
But, alas, for future generations I often wonder and fear:
Will babes be born with a cell phone protruding from the ear?
Entry for Simon Rogerson's "Let's Explore Digital Technology" Contest
(13 Feb 22)