Long Spaghetti Poems
Long Spaghetti Poems. Below are the most popular long Spaghetti by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Spaghetti poems by poem length and keyword.
There was an old seagull named Freddie
Who had loved his companion called Betty
But sadly one day the love of his life
Died - eating a bowl of spaghetti
So Freddie he searched for a new gal
As they flaunted themselves on the prom
One particular gal stood out from the rest
She had style
She had beauty
She had such aplomb
Her name he discovered was Sinitta
And Freddie so wanted to meet her
But he was much older
Young males were much bolder
Old Freddie retreated
As his energy depleted
So towards Beachy Head
Freddie flew there instead
He was sad
He was lonely
He had lost his true love
He wanted to fly where birds go when they die
And perched on the lighthouse staring up to the sky
He saw Betty gaze down
With a twinkle in her eye, she said
Fly off to meet her
This gal named Sinitta
She will fall for your kindness and charm
For she came from above and is looking for love
And I know you will keep her from harm
So Freddie soared back unafraid
With hope in his heart that he could persuade
This beautiful sea gal to share his life
To bear his children and become his wife
For seagulls can live to be thirty five
Although Freddie was just twenty three
And Sinitta was many years younger than him
But she was the one
It was meant to be
When Freddie arrived she was no longer there
And dismayed Freddie fell into deepest despair
But as he flew closer to the Golden Pier
Was that her calling he could hear
Sinitta was perched watching over the crowds
With the sun glistening down from above
As Freddie emerged from out of the clouds
She knew in an instant that this was true love
They were happy gulls together
But sadly nothing lasts forever
When mindless morons carried out the most odious of crimes
As reported in the press
We live in very violent times
But not before they pecked those morons till they bled to death
Did Freddie and Sinitta finally take their final breath
14th October 2018
Sponsor: Dear Heart a.k.a. Broken Wings
Competition: 'Fiction - October 2018 Writing Challenge'
Contest Strand Choice Q
Sponsor Brian Strand
2nd Place
The life. The strife. The wailing and the moan.
Whatever you think you’ve done right will always have been done wrong!
You may try to please, you may try to crack a smile.
But years, decades will go by and nothing will ever fully align!
They will confess to being happy even though that is to them a joy mixed with a pain!
You dare to look them in the eyes, you dare to ask them to explain!
Please accept that their emotions can’t be understood by mere, lowly, humble man alone.
Like playing with fire and ice both will cause a burn!
Your love and respect for your wife must always live protected deep inside.
Because to understand the other sex is the spaghetti pile of paths through a way you will never, ever find!
While looking for Elvis
Met Nessie in Loch Ness
Hoarding a leprechauns pot of gold
While getting ready to depart
I tripped over the Lost Ark
In the baggage of a hitchhiking Pharaoh
Thought I had got lost in flight
Stumble into Camelot at night
King Arthur shooting Robin Hood's arrows
Little green men from Mars
Battling a dragon with bumper cars
Jumping on my unicorn I rode
Diving into the Ocean
The mermaids gave me notions
My search for Elvis was getting cold
Swam down to Atlantis in the Atlantic
Dine at Poseidon's banquet
He had a big Roman nose
Cruising the Devil's Triangle
Being careful for any angle
I try to assassinate Castro
No money for the Florida toll booth
I wander into the Flountain of Youth
I look much younger so I'm told
On my way to Colorado
I kiss the Indian Princess of El Dorado
They can keep their entire treasure load
I saw Jimmy Hoffa eating a hot dog
While sitting with Big Foot on a redwood log
They were both getting pretty old
Went over to Memphis
Back through Las Vegas
My search for Elvis was about to fold
Than an angel named Gabriel
Told me about the new guy down at the stable
So I flew off to Shangri-la with pilot Joe
Our wings iced without warning
Damn this damn Global warming
Flying over Santa and a Chinese Viking Eskimo
We crashed landed in Xanadu
Met a few people we both knew
But Elvis left so I was told
With my new friend Yeti
We shared a big bowl of spaghetti
Amelia Earhart cooked and sold
Round the Garden of Eden
I traded an apple for freedom
From the lost tribes of Isreal though
On Mount Olympus I heard singing
The voice of Elvis reigning
I found the King of Rock and Roll
We ate a fried banana peanut butter sandwich
Elvis offer me the last bite of his sandwich
I politely refused I couldn't be so bold
Before I could ask Elvis as such
He rose and said "Thank you very much"
The answers I needed were put on hold
"Beam me up Scottie" he quipped
Than in a flash he was on the Mother Ship
And I turn and saw my friend little Moe
Area 51 is where that saucer came from
In Noah's Ark we drank wine and hard rum
Finding Elvis I am no hero
Looking for Elvis is half the fun
Its the trip that ends where it begun
Down in Dallas on a grassy knoll
I rolled like Caesar down the boulevard the day I came to town.
My triumph was impromptu and abrupt.
I parked my Chevy by the curbside on a gentle downhill slope
In hope there’d be no need for backing up.
From near the Devil’s Crossroads where I’d tempted fate
To the edge of Austin in the Lone Star State.
I walked my hunger to a roadhouse, spied the waitress shooting pool.
She ignored me, so I had to volunteer,
“I’ll have the Humperdinck pastrami with a Chopin polonaise,
And Jesus Christ, I need a goddamn beer!”
I swear her body English, when she broke the rack,
It took my breath away and wouldn’t give it back.
She was a cowgirl from the city with a wide Bonanza spread
And the guns to run the rustlers out of Dodge.
I had an immigrant’s desire just to lay my burden down
And shack up in some low rent motor lodge.
I said, “I’m here on business, babe, but heaven knows,
How your desert blossoms like a gypsy rose!
She played the accidental vixen like a cunning ingénue
And adlibbed her audition for the part.
She said, “The Workman’s Daily Special comes with saucy bedroom eyes.
If you’re picky, you can order ala carte.”
It seemed an outright bargain in a joint like this,
A spaghetti western with a Hitchcock twist.
I said, “I’ll be your Prince of Darkness if you’ll be my guiding light
And lead me down the path of least regret.”
She said her hands were always busy, but her heart was sometimes free,
And humored me by playing hard to get.
I offered Old Persuasion from a bootleg flask.
Heard the waitress answer, “Thought you’d never ask.”
She left her apron on the counter, took her jacket off the hook,
Deposited the tip jar in her purse,
Then we motored off to Splitsville down a narrow one-lane road,
Playing chicken in a car with no reverse.
The West
A gun, a holster, bullets…
A glass of whiskey and
a ten-gallon hat.
A horse, a saddle, a bridle…
and bags to hold it all.
Good guys, bad guys,
sheriffs, and hoods.
Shoot outs, long rides,
and even skinning hides…
just for a living.
Heroes and villains…
Fought caught and hanged…!
Eternally glorified,
all around the world.
Cowboys of fame…
never refrain.
You are who you are…
Spaghetti to hard sand,
a rare, uniquely, promised land.
Deserts and high country,
Indians and explorers…
Men of great pride!
Your word, your bond,
Your story,
will last long.
Forever.
…….
Pangie….
Adores Dirty Harry movies, his mouth
like a wrench.
And he has no trouble finding,a most
sexy wench!
Sticks to his principles, evil people have
no chance.
Ah, but only if he were real, criminals could
stop their death dance.
What a mantra he has, “ Go ahead, make
my day!”
Thieves would not have their disgustinginly
free, shooting forays.
People so proud to not own a TV anymore.
Satellite dishes provide a window to the
universe galore.
Nor would murderers walk and kill with delight.
His 44 Magnum would end their thefts, killings
and fights.
Too bad, these days, we have no strong,macho
Dirty Harry.
Afraid police are to use brute force,
The result~ our beloved ~ones we bury.
The jails are emptied, filling our streets
with human lice!
Instead the funky mayor of New York is.
more concerned about rats and mice!
Dead humans in NYC, in morgues or on the
streets, with Yankee baseball hats!
Oh how I wish all police take all killers, to
the mat!
Behind bars, is where violent people do
belong.
These cities filled with murder are truly
not a free county’s song!
Tribute to Clint Eastwood,American Actor.
~~Drama and Spaghetti Westerns……
12/2/2022
I dreamed my way here
I’ve had my cringe moments
I feel pressure, I lose perspective
I’ve wholeheartedly failed
I misspeak, underthink, overreact
I try to do the right thing
the right thing isn’t always clear
I’ve tried to hold on
I’ve let go with grace
I’ve charged ahead
I’ve stepped aside
I self-sabotage, then try to do better
I’ve self-consciously retreated
I’ve stood up for others
I’ve backed down and apologized
I’ve rinsed and repeated
I’m a chameleon, but I’ve never been perfect
I’ve under-reacted to challenges
I’ve overreacted to the ordinary
I devalue likeability
I indulge the language of play
I share my human experience
I don’t know what else to say.
In 1985, we had three daughters.
They were 5, 10, and 11.
So life was fun, of course.
Each daughter had a gerbil.
Flopsy, Crumbone and Taylor.
Don’t ask me which is which.
They are rodents.
I broke my leg on a Thursday.
In 5 places, trying to ride a bike to the day care
Center to pick up the 5-year- old because my
Husband had the car, and the police will come
Pick up the 5-year-olds who are left after 6.
This is California, where everything is weird.
My mom who had never flown on a plane,
Flew out wearing wings pinned to her bosom
on Saturday.
It’s a wonder I wasn’t already dead.
I was expecting that actually.
By evening she had fought the dogs
For their cooking pans full of water.
These dog-food pans were soon sterilized and
cooking spaghetti. And there was garlic
bread too, hot, piping, out of
an oven or something.
Home-made food!
My daughters were astounded.
They thought food came from
Styrofoam with restaurant
Names on it.
On Tuesday Mom was doing the 18,482
Pieces of laundry we had used the week
Before, and she said, “Caren, come over
Here.” I hobbled over on my crutches,
Which was not easy.
“I think a guinea pig is dead,” she whispered.
I poked it with a hoe. It did not move.
I poked it with a broom.
Nothing still.
We have to announce this
Delicately, my mother said in
Hushed tones of reverence.
We did not mention it during breakfast.
We did not mention it during lunch.
My mother kept looking at me expectantly.
By supper time after yelling for the three
Girls to come downstairs, and being ignored
I lost it and yelled, “A GUINEA PIG IS DEAD!”
Stomp. Stomp. Stomp. Stomp. Stomp. Stomp.
Wailing and keening began.
“That was subtle,” my mother told me.
Yes, it was.
Form:
Piecing together Harris/ Kuritsky tattered family tree
(Betsy Ross would beam at unflagging effort)
Ah, here all along yours truly
thought himself an abductee,
and/or zoologically
linkedin with chimpanzee,
hence imagine my disappointment
flipping laminated pages ye
ja undertook undoubtedly
painstaking effort,
plus wireless subcommittee
stitched together plain to see
helpful input thank you Amelie,
plus unnamed, undaunted,
and informed cousins
contributing to digging
into archives to help free
some unanswered nagging questions
only to generate others re:
garding ahem little feet
legs skinny as spaghetti
this haint no phallus si¿
lodged within me
noggin, which effort crudely
analogous fitting
prosthetic to amputee,
who understandably loosing limb,
would find her/him
screaming like banshee,
which one with diminished hearing
might sound like
suite (sweet) firebird stung
explaining flight of bumblebee
nonetheless, the bundled, compiled,
and detailed genealogy
courtesy eldest sister prithee
perhaps inspire "FAKE"
trumpeted voluminous tome twee
starring pooch donning
windblown heir spade fur -
or sporting canine toupee
with apt title regarding petsmart
bonafide muttering dog gone pedigree
hump backed es
in heat making whoopie
would become best selling fiction,
whereby Hollywood
might come calling
of course anonymous
actors/actresses,
or training one or another Arctic monkey,
where production costs
totally tubular less money
versus famous Homo
thespians portraying
long gone i.e. bissell mishuga
characterizing deceased exhumed
(figuratively) ghosts
might be (like...y'know...really) eerie
yet, a possible windfall
after signed contract
once all parties privy
to dramatize ancestors
unilaterally abide and agree
this unsolicited barkback feedback
countless many shindigs
witnessed predictable
yours truly absentee
soul (and sole) brother pulling
no shows claiming lame excuse
ah betcha I inherited emotional uncoupling
generations ago dirt poor peon,
perhaps unwitting creator
of peanut butter and jelly.
Mr.Tinkle and Rip Van Winkle.
Both they tinkled on a fence.
But when they were caught.
By the Police, they were sought.
They had to post some bail.
Traveled with Betty, after eating spaghetti.
Sat in an easy chair.
Mr.Tinkle and Rip van Winkle..
Again were hungry soon.
But Rip Van Winkle stole Tinkle's money.
Became a millionaire.
They rode on a bus, without a fuss.
Went to a convenient store.
They ordered a burger.Along with some liquor.
Lettuce, mayo, mustard, and more..
Rip Van Winkle found a wrinkle, in his overalls.
He had to snooze, after drinking the booze.
And never woke again!
Now Mr.Tinkle..Without Van Winkle.
Sat in an easy chair.
Had to tinkle with his dinkle.
Fickle with a pickle and pear.
Went with Audrey to do his laundry.
Now it's a love affair...
Rhyming-Scheme-Poem By Kim Robin Edwards
Copyright 2014..ALL rights reserved..