Long Sitter Poems
Long Sitter Poems. Below are the most popular long Sitter by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Sitter poems by poem length and keyword.
Early in life worthlessness prevailed employ
ying gnawing, infecting thought processes
did more than annoy
rooted, short circuited, and tasered
flickr happiness lived
spontaneous bobbing sponging buoy
clinging to mother's
apron string series
of unfortunate events
conspired to destroy
that extremely introverted
shy locked lad, and somewhat coy
no matter bred from Jewish stock,
his existence he did not enjoy
he knew no more of Semitic heritage,
and for all intents and purposes,
said life devoid of joy,
now late in his life shill
still coon sitter himself a goy.
This corporeal body orbited sun
at woof lee light warp speed,
no mortal can outrun
decades spun ever
faster than speeding bullet
from most high powered gun
or analogous to none
other than miniature whirling dervish
gyroscopic combination dreidel won
dress lee resembling
dicey snake eyes on fire all fun
and games by expert
watergate burglar nixon
argh...burned his legacy
Gerald ford did pardon
can of worms best not open
infamous administration
equally as full of shame
as Trump shenanigans,
he need put in place
rather than blame,
thus someone must tame
perhaps yours truly - not as lame
as presumed, unless ye might be game
eldest sister of mine suggested to aim
site as political activist bandwagon and
thus ineluctably claim
feeling glad to right Dame
Liberty, now a mockery, I exclaim
where land of milk and honey
necessitates more apropos name
oh...of course a
suitable avatar and meme!
At the time of my life, when all should done,
when my life should have transformed into just peace and fun.
The clock hasn’t paused
to allow me to sit
for a moment to rest my old bones for a bit.
Busier now than in my hectic life
where I thought that my work had given me strife.
Retirement at last,
the race has now run?
I’m afraid that is not the way it’s become.
For twenty four hours I worked every day
when I went to work to bring home the pay.
But now far more hours
I really do need
to just scratch the surface of my every deed.
They say that I’ve now got nothing to do
so I’ve time to help others to see some things through
Builder and plumber
consultant and friend,
there is no direction that I must not bend.
Taxi and baby sitter, help me move home,
mend my computer or repair my phone.
Just when I thought
that I’d earned a rest
I’m thrown back in the rat race and put to the test.
Although twenty four hours are never enough
and I get real tired with all of this stuff
now in retirement
against time I still race
for the youngsters today can’t keep up with life’s pace.
Look forward to old age, when you can retire
and sit with your slippers in front of the fire.
The time of your life
to relax, so it seems,
a picture so perfect …….it’s all in your dreams!
Ivor G Davies
The Little Brown Church
By
J.A. Long
I belong to the honest little brown church on Simpson Road
The one that everybody passes like Levites in a hurry
Perhaps looking for something kind of furry critter
Or perhaps for a house sitter at the very last minute
Perhaps even for a Spinet
The little brown church that is located directly across the street
From the popular yellow colored diner
But on the same side of the street which
Usually has more parking spaces than cars
The little church that needs more people
Including students for its quiet Sunday School
The little church that was once larger on
Third Street- you must know the one
she stood in a corner under a street lamp
waiting for someone who would pay for her
services to provide for her child’s needs
her face wore a look of determination
husband left taking all their savings
no transportation nor job she turned
to the streets to survive in a cruel city
she did not cry she would survive
police officers are some of her customers
so no need to hide she was safe to work
city officials and a judge also used her services
they drove up in their fancy cars seeking her
they are looking for understanding and love.
they lack this at home and are willing to pay for it
she believes these individuals are lost souls
searching for understanding and intimacy
she returns to her apartment, pay the sitter
and played with her daughter.
Absent Motility Against Staid Inertia
impossible to describe listlessness
bedeviling this body electric aye attest
motivation to counter glumness
seizes motility temporarily
to stave off staid purposeless at best,
yet aware poetic obfuscation chest
barely delineates fierce hopelessness
assailing me,
when'r awake and/or at everest
feeding melancholy feedback loop
sparring against faintest
momentum - writhing psyche,
asper an unwelcome guest
emotional friction
bringing motionlessness,
where lunging futility
summoning ability
to muster joie de vivre
defeated willpower
no matter mental health
propped up
with pharmacological medications
prescribed by Doctor George Adams be hest,
yet tis NOT suicide, but general malaise
as if poison (or stung by a scorpion) jest
permeates thy being
sparking existential angst
hoop fully communicating figurative soffits
facilitating emotional bulwark lest
ye coon sitter
this lix spittled chap messed
up in the head, but also that empty nest
syndrome - a bird den, and nefarious pest
disallowing merrily rowing my boat
subjected to turbulence that doth wrinkle
space/time continuum quest
punctuating any attempt
to take fig yurt heave Newtonian rest
without being assailed
of drab quotidian predictability
re: envious papa
towards daughters adventurous lives
he rejoices (albeit vicariously)
respective lives where offspring lasso lassitude,
viz both their electric kool aid acid test
how fate didst in vest
waning wily woebegone zest!
Looms as harbinger unless
*****sapiens can unite
one non Yiddish speaking
Ongematert wishing ye
fare thee well tonight
before betokening apocalyptic sight
'course one must go about
her/his business - right?
Rhetorical question - yet
impossible mission quite
challenging, where one
brother grimm ponders plight
Cosmofunnel favorite fan
Katina Borgersen "poof"
our acquaintanceship dissolved
(think snapped fingers) outright
regardless, whether...
perchance we ever
cross paths long daze
journey into night
met under virtual reality moonlight
ah... the mere awareness
of her existence
metaphorically found modest, mercurial
mellow male within limelight
oy vey admittedly one
rusty Ongepatshket knight
fumbling in the dark with
his unreliable sputtering jacklight
hooping aforesaid gal whose eyes alight
upon mine genuine words doth newt
coon sitter me laughable, nor impolite,
yet accept hard reality to highlight
and/or _ underscore delight
full dame online - each of us,
an infinitesimal jot of granulite
within vast cosmos given finite
minuscule time to excite
our senses trening utmost delight
during brief unique
deoxynucleic chromosomal copyright
til death do us part,
whether natural demise
or... huge mushroom
clouds radioactive blight.
Uneasiness far greater
to confront atomic augury
than pernicious penury
which ceases within eyeblink
far more serious than perjury
nonetheless afflicting me
with psychological injury.
Personal finances pitted
me deep in hock
into red zone, yes
quite a shock,
now finds yours
truly poorest oldest
curmudgeon goofy "kid"
on the block
within Lake woebegone
hard space and rock
as inevitable doom
with each second approaches closer
with each tick tock.
Looking under a leaf
In search of a caterpillar thief
Pinched a tomatoes cheek
Oh what a creepy creep
He's a very deliberate critter
She cried that hairy worm bit her
Said,"He'd come back to get her
And scare her baby sitter."
Her nanny saw her cryin'
Knew she wasn't lyin'
Her story there was no denyin'
That worm bit her "cheek" like a lion
If you see that herbivorous fellow
That made that tomato turn yellow
He'll be under a leafy umbrella
And as fat as an armadillo
He's a real tomato masher
A suspected garden trasher
He's wanted and needs to be captured
And sentenced to life in a pasture
an original poem by the "poemdog" Daniel Turner:)
Abandoned on the promenade,
A big-wheeled trike did sit,
Forlornly waiting for the tyke
Who should be riding it.
I passed it on my morning walk,
When few are up and out
And seeing it, I wondered
What its story was about.
For why was it forgotten?
Did the mom leave in a rush?
Or the dad or sitter tending to
A child’s scraped knee a’gush?
Or perhaps they came across some friends
And headed to the swings
With the tricycle remaining there,
Ignored for better things.
I hope someone remembers it
And comes to take it home,
Where it belongs much more
Than as a subject for a poem.
Doomsday Clock January 2022...
the most recent tabulation
signaled one hundred seconds to midnight
A couple years ago
similarly titled poem I did write,
yet looms as harbinger unless
*****sapiens can unite
one non Yiddish speaking
Ongematert wishing ye
fare thee well tonight
before betokening apocalyptic sight
'course one must go about
her/his business - right?
Rhetorical question - yet
impossible mission quite
challenging, where one
brother grimm ponders plight
Cosmofunnel favorite fan
Katina Borgersen "poof"
our acquaintanceship dissolved
(think - snapped fingers) outright
regardless, whether...
perchance we ever
cross paths long daze
journey into night
met under virtual reality moonlight
ah... the mere awareness
of her existence
metaphorically found modest, mercurial
mellow male within limelight
oy vey admittedly one
rusty Ongepatshket knight
fumbling in the dark with
his unreliable sputtering jacklight
hooping aforesaid gal whose eyes alight
upon mine genuine words doth newt
coon sitter me laughable, nor impolite,
yet accept hard reality to highlight
and/or _ underscore delight
full dame online - each of us,
an infinitesimal jot of granulite
within vast cosmos given finite
minuscule time to excite
our senses trending utmost delight
during brief unique
deoxynucleic chromosomal copyright
til death do us part,
whether natural demise
or... huge mushroom
clouds radioactive blight
unimaginable nightmarish scenario
impossible mission to close third eye blind
webbed global haunting spectacle
mortal creatures linkedin to ill fate
including yours truly,
a generic, garden variety
hermetically sealed cell bit anchorite.
Uneasiness far greater
to confront atomic augury
than pernicious penury
which ceases within eyeblink
far more serious than perjury
nonetheless afflicting me
with psychological injury.
Personal finances pitted
me deep in hock
into red room zone,
shining thru the mist
story, yes I experience
quite a shell shock,
to absorb inconvenient truth
great swaths of Gaia
analogous to dead zone,
nevertheless, now finds yours
truly poorest, oldest, and nerdiest
curmudgeon goofy "kid"
on the chopping block
within Lake Wobegon
hard space and third rock
from sun as inevitable doom
inches closer as each second elapses
insync with inaudible tick tock.
Small and Extra Large Loo
ma viewed her old man in a helpful mood
her sweetness turned to a fiery storm brewed
a two sitter for the loo
his and her tush fit for two
extra spicy will simmer in his food
Eve Roper 11/18/2016
Fred cut two holes in the dunny
His poor wife didn’t find it so funny
The HUGE hole for HER rear
Now filled HIM with fear
She could drop him in poop so runny
(Dunny is an Australian word for toilet)
By: Jan Allison 11/20/2016
Ma clenched her fists in anger when she saw
the two toilet seats constructed by Pa
he made hers entirely too large
then said her butt's big as a barge
Ma's in jail for murder~she broke the law
By: Lin Lane 11/20/2016
Papa was a sweet pleasing spouse
He built mama a new custom outhouse
One look was all it took
She caught him with a left hook
Widening the door all it took to rouse
By: Sonny Roper 11/20/2016
Nothing beats a good wooden throne
A two seater I’d really condone
Oh to share the sound of the plop
From things that tinkle and drop
I fear the wife, would rather go it alone
By: Mark Woods 11/20/2016
I have been ordered to renovate the loo
so my good wifey can go for a poo
the hole I cut was so large
as it had to fit her ****
Oh im in trouble now, what a to-do
By:Stephen Pennell 11/20/2016
Before Dad could reach the pit,
my enraged Mum took a fit.
The seat as we gawked,
made into a wooden stalk.
For my poor pitiful Pop.
By: Jean Murray 11/20/2016