Long Sixty one Poems
Long Sixty one Poems. Below are the most popular long Sixty one by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Sixty one poems by poem length and keyword.
“And you call yourself a bloody cook”, this mongrel shearer said.
“I oughta ram this rubbish down yer’ throat, it’ll kill a bloke stone dead.”
He’s talking ‘bout the stew I burnt, which I hoped he couldn’t focus.
That he’d gulp it down with ‘red-eye’ wine, and he would fail to notice.
But no, my luck was out, he flew raging from his seat
“You’ve put a taste into my ‘gob’, now I need something sweet,
What’s in the fridge;” he yanked the door, took out a plate and bowl,
On one was chunky custard, and one a mouldy sausage roll.
“Look at this!” The shearer screamed, so all the mob could see.
First they eyed the sausage roll, and then looked back at their tea.
“Hang on” I said, “You ‘mangy’ lot, what you’re seeing here,
Is something I can’t be blamed for, they’re from the cook last year.”
“Git’ the boss!” I heard yelled out, and one went for the door.
I need this job and need it bad … to them I vowed and swore.
I’ll clean out the fridge and lift my act; then promised I would bake,
A treat for them on Wednesday ... my special chocolate cake.
My memory’s a little blank, for the ingredients I need,
I’ve got most in the cupboard, with no recipe to read,
Butters scarce but lard will do, and the milks a little sour.
None of them are ‘gunna’ notice, the weevils in the flour.
There’s salt and caster sugar, I need cocoa but there’s none,
There is a tin of milo though; its use by date is March of sixty-one,
That’s everything to make the cake; all I need’s an egg to bind,
Oh yes! There are two in the fridge; last years cook had left behind.
I got down the mixing bowl, and took some water from the tank,
Spooned out a couple of wrigglers … the dead ones to the bottom sank.
I’m not sure about the ounces or the tablespoons and such.
Cups of this with drops of that, but does that really matter much.
The only time I wasn’t sure, and felt maybe should I renege,
When I cracked the shell and found, a half grown chicken in the egg.
But they’re shearers here, big and strong, who’d never get to eat,
Let alone a chocolate cake, but one that’s made with meat.
The oven’s hot, the textures great, I greased the baking dish.
The cake was cooked and it smelt great … every shearers wish.
But a chicken’s foot stuck out the top; I cut out and ate that bit.
You know this chocolate cake of mine, tasted – more – like … ‘passionfruit’!
October seventeenth ninety sixty one ...
Born sixty one years ago,
the follow poem from your bro
transmitted courtesy flagship
named Jacques-Yves Cousteau
constituting countless ones and zeroes
instantaneously traversing cyberspace
as packeted, framed dataflow
binary digits bit of information
to acknowledge when
thee transitioned being an embryo
(approximately the second
to eighth week after fertilization)
approximately nine months prior,
whose birth marked debut
of bouncing daddy's little girl,
whose inquisitiveness nourished
birthed perception buzzfeeding
capital one earthlinked baby
fostering, kickstarting, and
orchestrating cognitive aptitude,
who throughout storied existence,
which kudos ye
proudly promulgate to and fro
hither and yon across
social media platforms
understandably, opportunistically, and
humbly letting family and friends
across the webbed wide world
know amazing accomplishments,
when ye did initially grow
from being precocious genetic pedigree
into a whip smart self confident
globe trotter, whose curriculum vitae
dwarfs (by powers of seven)
feeble accomplishments of mine,
went thee invested with a heigh-ho
positive state of mind
every endeavor undertaken
(in one physically gruelling instance)
biking, hiking, riding
to your private Idaho
(fast as a B-52)
versus humdrum life of one common Joe,
whose heightened perception
aside from singing the praises
of admiration toward youngest sister
after countless years, he failed to know
about her trials and tribulations
exercising your potential to the maximum
invariably feeling dog tired
with a dose of lumbago
thrown in for good measure
nevertheless adept as bilingual person
quite helpful travelling
to Spanish speaking countries
during your roaring twenties off to Mexico,
and just recently taking a jaunt
to Portugal donned accruing
vibrant sense and sensibility
treasuring richly pocketing nouveau
memories attracting natural outgrow
of ardent followers, whether online
or in flesh, who clamor for selfie photo
with thee and steadfast husband
unlike henpecked wife of mine
enjoyable as pesky miss Quito
who pesters me to get off computer
so she can binge watch Netflix
hence adieu as I hop on my cubii
off to complete
another stationary roadshow.
Now I don't know if you've heard
Of the Baked Bean competition
Where contestants eat as much as can
In just twenty five minutes
Up they lined ready to start
To gobble up these dishes
Standing by were huge black pots
Ready to refill empty dishes
There was Kieren the Fat
A man of gargantous girth
One would think he could eat a horse
For dessert polish off a camel
Then Lucy who rolled into her place
As wide as she was tall
Rumours said she ate her kids
When out of food she ran
Andre the Giant, a pig of a man
Stood all of seven foot six
His pants held up by shiny black belt
With his flab hanging over that
Next was Amelia, we all know her
Shape as dainty as a brood sow
Eats and eats and never full
She'll be one hell of a contender
Last of all, a ringer you might say
A skinny runt of a man
Who was this one trying to fool
The one called Poetnumber1
The bowls were filled, ready to go
As soon as signal given
One last look up and down the line
And the starter pistol was fired
Kieren the Fat wasted no time
Sucked down bowl after bowl
And keeping pace one for one
Was Lucy next to him
Andre the Giant he too kept pace
Matched them bowl for bowl
But blow me down, an early lead
Amelia was ahead by one
But what is this, My eyes don't believe
This Poetnumber1
Bowl after bowl goes down his throat
He's leading by a mile
Kieren the Fat is slowing down
And so is Lucy too
I think they called an end to them
They managed to reach fifty two
Andre the Giant he had enough
His score was sixty one
Amelia still going strong
But Poetnumber1's out front
At eighty eight Amelia stopped
Gave one look and dropped
Probably lay there for a week or two
Before she'll finally wake
But Poetnumber1 is still going strong
He's reached one hundred and three
The bell was rung, winner declared
It was Poetnumber1
A sudden hush fell over crowd
As gurgling sounds were heard
A pained look on Poetnumber1's face
And then the world exploded
The smell so bad as you can imagine
People screaming in fear
And in the middle, with smile on face
Stood Poetnumber1
I must admit, he was very polite
He did say 'Pardon me'
But by this time most had fainted
Or screaming ran away
The youngish woman danced to a rollicking tune
Up early at quarter till nine, exhausted now
At half past noon
Leaning on her dance partner,
her always close by faithful walker
Her long white hair damp with her dew
of dancing's sweet exertion
Music truly always was her very best
excursion
She lied down on her couch to rest
This 1960's rocker
A power nap, ah, getting old
is such a heavy bummer
Her nap leads to a sparkling beach
And the dreams of endless summer
Waking fresh within an hour the stereo
Sings again
A gift she got in '65, is still a constant friend
Her fall had lead her to some pain,
But that won't stop this lady
She's feeling groovy anyway
She's barely turning eighty
For now, no this isn't me. This is just
for fun....
But I'm still loving dance time
at a younger sixty-one
A sweet Friday night sing along
Enjoying old fun songs we've sung
Rising in dance to yesterday's beat
Then melting in laughter, and taking a seat
I look to my future less two decades away
Hope I'm still dancing on my 80th Birthday
~ Psalm 30:11 ~
King James Version
"Thou hast turned for me my mourning into dancing: thou hast put off my sackcloth, and girded me with gladness;"
The last hoorah of old man winter 2022?
March twelfth Ded Moroz
struts his white stuff
first real substantial puncheon
found Jack Frost in his glory,
he haint no longer morose nor gruff,
cuz series of fortunate meteorological events
found crystalline precipitation hoary.
I revel watching
the bit torrent of snowflakes alight
upon the greensward;
a cold wind bloweth and doth bite
any exposed flesh of daredevil
(the re:noun Evel Knievel of verbiage)
weather beaten soul
trundling with delight
inured to brutal cold
all fours seasons excite
contemplative character
asked me to ghostwrite,
thus a reasonable rhyme yielded
courtesy wuthering height.
Yours truly breathes deep sigh of relief,
when surprise blizzard came our way,
no matter yours truly solitary fellow
holed up in me mancave yay,
he experiences unfettered glee
for picturesque blustery scene today
eight sleeps before Spring Equinox
glad second rate nor'easter
pummeled Southeastern
Montgomery County, Pennsylvania.
The near future forecast
bodes well nigh arrival of vernal equinox
when the sun crosses celestial equator
in northerly direction, marking
prime meridian of right ascension.
Fanfare for common man
(think das scribe spinning these lines)
grateful timely notion
kindled inside mine noggin
truth be told - before onset of storm,
I drew one blank after another
and felt at my wits end
regard apropos material to write about.
Methought to soon to post
poem about beware the ides of March,
(approximately sixty one
and a half hours hence,
similar explanation regarding
summoning creative literary endeavor
honoring Lá Fhéile Pádraig sona duit,
thus imposed upon figurative shoulders
(mine) to hash out some
marginally passable verse.
Now attention pauses to take look see
out bedroom window
watching medley of gusty air
in sync with blizzard conditions,
yet yours truly snug
as a bug in a rug
despite not turning on the heat,
and would ye believe
bard of Perkiomen Valley
only donned in ma birthday suit?
Once upon a time, a possi or sparkle of beetles lived in an abandoned tract. The group was cloistered for being so uncooperative with hardworking beetles and for being selfish. There are adult male and female beetles that mated and lived with their young. And for each day in one whole week that all the young are being fed, the young noticed that they are like outcasts and were never permitted to play with more beetles outside their territory. From their parents, all the young learned that betrayal, lying, stealing and cheating are the basics of survival.
One night, an explosion occured in their territory -- a human-made destruction. Many beetles died and very few survived.
Two months later, a new generation of beetles with enhanced pheromones originating from the very few old survivors was created. This group of beetles was gifted with luciferin in their abdomens to spark a better lineage of beetles to enlighten the paths of the misled. Wondering how the new breed of beetles transformed into luminous ones at night, all other beetles and insects are reminded that not all bigger insects and the like will remain or prevail as predators to smaller, weaker species.
One day, when this group of beetles multiplied and was discovered by humans, they were called "fireflies."
Fireflies have emotions too, like humans. Sixty-one days or equivalent to two months, all fireflies can live. Not more than two months even ghost or purple flies can survive, to limit the extent of illumination on grasslands and running, moving waters anywhere close to human shelter.
Fireflies are not pets. They are helpful to crops and human survival. They are not pests, but nest on high grasses to protect nature and preserve human interests on exploration.
Fireflies lit
In dark places of nit
Roving lightworkers
Each night on bleak shelters
Full of life
Life in you that spark
In your mind, body and soul
Every breath of life
Soothes and sparkle in the dark
(Prosebite)
Jeb was a veteran of the War of all wars,
When brother fought brother and families closed doors.
Wounded in battle in the year of sixty-one;
Four years before Gettysburg, fore' it just begun.
Jeb got a Medal of Honor two years ago;
Six months later he buried Anna in the snow.
A mason by trade, local tombstones his forte;
A loner by night, a master craftsman by day.
He lived in an old, clapboard excuse for a home,
Making his living, chiseling hard bedrock stone.
Each stone custom crafted with names of the deceased;
From a quarry, in the town's dangerous northeast.
A rocky splinter of land carved out of coarse stone,
In a place called Diablo, better left alone.
It was here that he'd come, first thing every morn,
When the daylight was with him; the day's mist airborne.
Copious creations completed correctly,
Any work Jeb finished, it was done adeptly.
None to be shipped until the final okay, and
Then only after, he firmly packed them in sand.
Jeb had always hoped that Anna would bear him an heir;
Now alone, there was no one with whom he could share.
Fortune never shined on this kind-hearted old man;
Knowing in his heart that death, could not be outran.
It is said that one day the dark reaper came, and
In the early dawn in the slippery upland,
Jeb fell to his death on an iron wagon below;
The old stone mason landed head down in the snow.
His skull was split open with much gory detail -
Birthed the Stonemason's Legend - a most morbid tale.
Folklore surrounded this magnified tragedy;
As the specter each night, retraces its journey.
You don't want to venture to the quarry at night;
You may find yourself slip with no one to indict.
The townspeople close their windows, just before dark;
Fear the Stonemason - his journey, now to embark.
August 5, 2016
Two drummer boys rapped out a beat.
(That Sabbeth day when both sides bled.)
As bitter cold froze hands and feet.
(Palm Sunday fourteen sixty one.)
Both boys in war afraid to die.
(A bizzard raged as arrows sped.)
True battle favours flying high.
(With armour piercing bodkin head.)
Praying to live, until day's done.
(The war of roses had begun.)
Dark angry clouds block out the sun,
(That Sabbeth day when both sides bled.)
With blood now seeping from the dead,
(The frozen ground and beck ran red.)
Their call of duty, bringing dread.
(This battle site was near Towton.)
One drummer boy beats out retreat.
(A blizzard raged as arrows sped.)
But victory was not so sweet.
(When all seemed lost, the vanquished fled.)
Two drummer boys they carried on
(The White rose claimed the day was won.)
Both drum in time, for lives now gone,
(That Sabbeth day when both sides bled.)
A tribute to, the brave now slain.
(With nine and twenty thousand dead.)
And wounded soldiers who remain.
(No place to hide nowhere to run.)
Two drummer boys both sharing grief.
(A blizzard raged as arrows sped.)
Their war for glory, no relief.
(The Crown of England it is said.)
Those two brave boys will never meet.
(With bloodied hands, when day was done.)
Both drummer boys rapped out a beat,
(That Sabbeth day when both sides bled.)
They died amid the battles noise.
(A blizzard raged as arrows sped.)
Two heroes now, two drummer boys.
3/ 3/ 2015
Drummer boys 3/ 3/ 2015 first. verse Palm Sunday. 3/ 2/ 2015. second. verse.
Both poems written before joining poetry soup. 2/ 20/ 2015
< Cascading lakes and streams
The loon stands out it seems
Minnesota's state bird
I know it must sound absurd
Adopted in nineteen sixty one
Wails and yodels heard under the sun
Black and white bearing red eyes
Wingspans five feet can make one cry
Body lengths up to three feet
Yet clumsy on lands and moss peat
They are high speed flyers
And great underwater divers
They can dive up to ninety feet
In pursuit of fish they want to eat
They are even on our license plates
An critical habitat drawn on metal slates
Twelve thousand of these unique birds
God that has to be a lot of turds
But for now I'll enjoy it's captured views
Of this beautiful loon and it's most colorful hues
Written By Katherine Stella
Entry For Mini - Blog Beautiful Bird Contest
By Constance ~ A Rambling Poet
Mysterious Tower
From top of a tower I am watching Sun about to set
Western sky is ready to display twilight at best
Spectacular color patterns started to display
by reflected, refracted and diffracted Sun ray.
Leaning on the railing
I am also observing
turbulent sea waves whirling, rolling
and thrashing on the sandy shore
Sun has descended the horizon
I am whispering an orison
to God of Ocean
Charming twilight got saturated in dark
Sun rays left no single spark
All the viewers are getting down
I am the loner at night of No Moon.
I felt, now I am to leave the tower.
Already it is too late hour.
When I climbed, i counted the steps as hundred.
I started counting steps again as I am to descend.
One, two,..........twenty- four .....fifty -nine, sixty
Sixty-one......seventy-three......eighty-nine, ninety
ninety-one.......hundred, hundred-one...........two hundred
two hundred and one........five hundred........ No end.
I am descending and counting, counting and descending,
I am going down and down, steps are going down unending.
07/04/16