Long Southern Poems
Long Southern Poems. Below are the most popular long Southern by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Southern poems by poem length and keyword.
Getting rowdy--really loud
Hanging with your country crowd
Having fun with lots of laughter
Nothing seems to really matter
Watching sports and swigging bears
All your troubles disappear
Jukebox playing favorite songs
You can dance to all night long
Cowboy hats--Tight fitting jeans
This is such a sexy scene
Hearing yee-haw and y'all
In a southern country drawl
Dresses twirling on the floor
Dancing like never before
Bull riding and betting on
Who will fall off--just for fun
Red solo cups across the bar
Drunken voices yell yee-haw
Some workdays---every weekend
This enjoyment never ends
Through the warm, cold and hot weather
Family and friends get together
For some harmless fun that lasts
Always having such a blast
Hillbilly musicians don't play the drums
They use instruments that they can strum
Fiddle or blow
Why do they do this? I don't know
It must make a unique noise
When accompanied by
Fiddle, Banjo, Guitar and boys
Singing as nobody sang
With that country music twang
By their side, a bottle of Whisky and Rye
While watching those Southern Belles pass by
With a Hi-dee-hi and a Do si do
Strum those strings
And away we go
The fiddler, fiddling
Like a man possessed
The girls look stunning
In their country best
With lots of clapping
Foot stomping too
There's no rapping
It's not the thing to do
It's called a Hoedown
Where you'll have a blast
Its world renown
Sure to make you gasp
The atmosphere and music
It will make you dance and sing
You will become hooked
On this country music thing
A Southern Band, so grandeur
Always professional as they tuned and toured
The Skynyrds, as i grew up with them
Southern gals and Southern men.
Rossington, Medlocke and the famous Van Zants
Straight Southern Rock without a slant
Boogie riffs, and maybe a spliff
But what they produced, was my music wish.
In 77, their world fell apart
This horrific plane crash, did its worst
Cassie, Stevie and Robbie Van Z
The pilots and Dean, died at the scene
Three days after, this title tasker
Ironically titled Street Survivors.
The courage and love
As they moved through the years
Every time i play them
It brings a few tears.
My only wish is too see them live
Absorb their music capture their vibes
Wave their flags, as they do each tour
And wish all their lives to be so pure.
The above words are from who i am
James from Scotland just - A Simple Man
" For one of the best Rock Bands ever "
http://www.thehighlanderspoems.com/music.php
I was inspired by a movie where the main character was a photographer and she took photos of the devastating aftermath of hurricane Katrina in the Southern United States. Her photos were seen by a property developer who was born in the area, but who was overseas at the time. The photos inspired him to return home for good; and to develop property and businesses to help rejuvenate the area again.
Never underestimate the power of art, creativity, communication and emotions. Human beings are capable of extraordinary things - especially when we work together. Blessings, love and light.
A photo
By Michelle Morris
08/01/2022
A photo is such a magical thing:
It can breathe life into a story, or
save memories for future reminiscing;
It can paint a picture that is so much more
vivid than mere words,
It can create an emotional reaction to see through the eyes of a lens.
A photo can change a life and a path:
It can awaken our deepest emotions, and stir our hearts and our minds;
It can lift us up to a higher wisdom or
showcase disaster to remind us of mercy.
A photo is definitely of wonder and magic;
and without these gifts of forever,
life would certainly be tragic.
© Michelle Morris, 2022
I think it is time that I take a stance
on an issue of supreme importance,
I’ve stayed quiet on it for far too long,
to keep living a lie feels so wrong,
I hope this doesn’t sound hokey or trite,
I expect much flak from the left and right,
but it’s clear that when all is said and done,
friend chicken is truly made of awesome.
There! It’s said! Let controversy begin,
but I’ll repeat it, again and again!
Fried chicken is God made into a food,
don’t care if that sounds blasphemous or rude,
the crunch that proceeds mouth-watering bites
is enough to set a bad mood to rights,
A savory flavor, the spice and the grease…
with more fried chicken, we could have world peace,
it would taste so good that we’d just want more,
be too busy eating to have time for war.
Doused in Cajun spice, or southern-style,
it’s a meal you’ll remember for a while,
cut into tenders, fun for the kids,
shape to a filet, you’ll be glad you did,
load it with barbeque, sweet-and-sour,
put it on a waffle at breakfast hour,
you can shape it into tasty nuggets,
or take it old school, in a big bucket,
it’s nearly as good cold as when it’s warm,
for most common foodstuffs, that’s not the norm.
Some folks get nervous about this delight,
since chicken has its own stereotypes:
Black folks like friend chicken, I think that’s true,
since everybody does, no matter the hue.
Honestly, can you think of on single place
where people don’t clamor for this fine taste?
Even doctors who say we must watch our weight,
in secret declare,’Fried chicken is great!’
The vegans say they hate it, think meat is bad,
this must be the reason they’re always mad,
if I had to lie, deny what I cave,
I’d probably be stalking ’round in a rage.
And so I will shout it, near everywhere,
call me a paid shill, I just do not care,
beyond Cornell recipe nothing can beat
the taste of a chicken fried in high heat,
try to deny this, it cannot be done,
fried chicken is truly made of awesome.
Growing up in the 50's and 60's, for me,
Was far less than 'a piece of cake';
Far less than 'a walk in the park'.
In the Southern region of my country,
There were two worlds; one was Black,
And the other was White. These two worlds coexistence but lived separately in most ways.
One Jim Crow custom was for Blacks to enter the homes of Whites through the back door.
When just a boy, I cut the lawn of a White elderly couple that insisted I enter through their front
Door. They were the nicest of any people I had
Ever known. Friendly, generous, and genuine.
More than 60 years have passed since the time
I knew them. I moved away after high school and never saw them again. But presently, I wish that I could tell them that I see them very clearly in my mind and feel their love deeply in my heart. They were the 'Whitworths'.
There was a long serving counter, high revolving chairs, and café smells.
There was a special taste of hamburgers served at this southern segregated café. My first encounter with the café and the tasty burgers was more than 50 years ago during those Jim Crow days of my childhood.
On a very busy block of a street called Issaquena was an eatery with two sides; one side for whites and the other for blacks. I never heard otherwise, but I would be shocked if those tasty juicy hamburgers had any stench of segregation in them. I’m confident that they were prepared by the same cook and equally fantastic on both sides.
I could never forget that little café and its mouth-watering burgers so memorable from my childhood bygone years. There’s a slight chance that it might still be there. But maybe not. Maybe the little café with those tasty burgers is holding its own against the likes of the Big Macs and the whoppers. Or maybe not. Perhaps it had to give way to new development or an urban renewal project. Or maybe not.
One can only hope that some things are forever. The fast food burger chains of today can never replace the taste of the homely hamburgers that I came to love. Those were bygone years of a time before hormonal injections, when people never asked, “What’s in this meat?” or, “Where’s the beef?”
I do not remember the café’s name, but I could never forget that ‘longed for taste’ of those burgers or its location. There was so much history made and life being lived in that little area of town. I am certain that these dear people also experienced and smelt the aroma of those burgers as they lingered close by.
It would be great to see those people again. If I should visit that street again, I suspect that non would be there. For sure, I will be looking for the burger shop. But if not there, the burgers and the people will always be a part of me wherever I go. If that café is not there, I shall determine to stand where it once stood and say, “Thanks for the memories".
Thelonious Monk
piano keyboard prophet
harmonizing scales
Melody from flat to sharp
rhythm soothing to the soul
Comments: Thelonious Sphere Monk (1917-1982) is recognized as one of the
most influential figures in the history of Jazz. He was one of the architects of
bebop and his impact as a composer and pianist has had a profound influence
on every genre of music. Thelonious Monk Institutes of Jazz are located at the
following locations: Washington Office: 5225 Wisconsin Avenue NW, Suite 605,
Washington, DC and Los Angeles Office: University of Southern California, 3443
Watt Way, Lower Level, Los Angeles, CA. The Thelonious Monk Institute of Jazz, a
nonprofit education organization, was founded in 1986 by the Monk family along
with the late Maria Fisher, an opera singer and lifelong devotee of music.
Kisses placed upon your neck,
I hear your tender sighs;
whispers soft in Southern voice
are begging for surprise.
“Hold me now for just a while,
I want to be embraced.”
I feel you melt into my arms,
your hands around my waist.
Senses filled with your sweet scent
of lavender in spring;
tender cheeks against my skin
makes my emotions sing.
Tender breasts against my chest,
I’m losing all control;
feeling you so close to me,
I want your heart and soul.
Flutters now I feel inside,
I’m coming all undone;
longing for that loving touch
when two become as one.
Yearning deep within me burns
don’t tease me anymore;
and leave me standing all alone
while knocking at love’s door.
September 13, 2019
Lagniappe
Wide plantation shutters open
With the laziness of
Summered streams
To blink against the shimmering reflections
Of brilliant midday
Dancing on the cobblestones,
Mingling
With the scent of summer lilacs,
Rising
With its bon ami
At the wedding of the dawn
and dusk,
When live oaks
stretch
across broad avenues
To join their hands in shady arches -
Stately guardians
Holding off the power
Of the sun -
Weaving lacy shadows
On the sidewalks
and wide boulevards
Where two sisters meet –
One light as morning
Amber eyes of fiery gold,
One with hair touched by the autumn
Dark eyes deep as midnight shadows -
Gifting lagniappes of affection in
Sweet bouquets of southern honeysuckle
And
Nosegays filled with satin daphne -
Shared in greeting,
Cherished in receiving
As summer's sweet perfume
Entwined about the roses,
Saved
In bands of yellowing lace,
To walk now arm in arm
Under eyelet parasols
Exchanging letters,
Wrapped in satin ribbons,
Strolling through
The winding lanes of secret byways
Sharing sweet beignets
In quiet cafes
In the ete afternoon
While a playful
Huckleberry breeze
Catches emerald ribbons
Floating
From the brims of summer straw hats,
Ruffling petticoats,
Lacy as the Spanish moss
Swaying in the eddies of the air,
Until the jasmined sigh of evening
Mingles with the rising dews
Of the deeply running river
To call them back into the twilight mists,
In reveries for yet another day.