Long Story Poems
Long Story Poems. Below are the most popular long Story by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Story poems by poem length and keyword.
Some say that our people
will never, ever get along,
that skin is our ‘identity,’
that old, bigoted song.
Some must always be victims,
and others will oppress,
the groups A, B, C are awful,
but D, E, F are best.
I don’t care much for that,
but one thing is clear,
taking home Shanise tonight,
so wingman, hold my beer.
Others cry technology
is destined to stagnate,
that another dark age
we should anticipate.
They say we don’t innovate,
our minds are growing dim,
they rightly point out failures
enforced by government.
But I saw the private rocket fly,
brought me nearly to tears,
I’ll get to space so kindly
shut up, and hold my beer.
Many of the academics
say that the glories past
can never be equaled,
and teach post-modern trash.
Disregard for story-tellers
is their latest theme,
thinking to find greatness
with no plot or strong leads.
That’s what they’re resigned to,
there are no more Shakespeares,
the creative mind smirks and
says,”Buddy, hold my beer.”
Loud voices say religion
is unenlightened clap-trap,
then they cannot figure out
why more young men snap.
They say prayer is backwards,
a superstitious lie,
that is serves no purpose,
has outlived its time.
But the Big Man told me
to tell you loud and clear
that you should look to your soul,
and also, hold His beer.
All across this hard Earth
they say we are doomed,
our flaws are overwhelming,
the end if coming soon.
Trendy are the misanthropes,
be they green or ivory,
they celebrate failure,
rationalize misery.
Acting as if it’s all done,
there are no more frontiers,
but human will doesn’t quit,
step back, and hold my beer.
In walked the Redeyed Stranger
Bragging: he used an excessive amount of
bagging gestures and words. He was told by
his handler to tune down the rhetoric, as one
person found him rude and overbearing. We
were worried someone would use the
opportunity to be mean of crasp towards him.
His horse had been clipped and shampooed.
The animal was a prized Belgium Draft, hows
shiny black fur was a sight for even the most
novice of people. The most positive thing about
his rant was we foundout that he worried about
someone greasing his saddle. He told one of
the men To watch the pranksters. One of them
might want to grease my saddle to get me out
of contention.When the time came for the horse pull
a fella went out and looked at all the saddles.
and be hold the saddle for the Belgium Draft had
been greased. A group of rider found a can of
grease with a brush in the chicken coop behind
the pile of cornhusks.
This a story about a group of Show horse riders who incorporated
"La selle Grasse" into there show. It was a scritp that involved the
audience.Often the Staged show would involve horses doing tricks.
"The Magnificent Athlete" a fella who wore a mask and cape would
come to the rescue of the guy accussed of greasing the saddle,
they'd brawl and tell the audeince who really greased the saaddle,
revealing a tied up man gagged with a hankercheif in his mouth.
The Masked Man than would use this forumn to catupule his
rasslin carreer. He'd "work a-show" for cheap heat and get
the pop he needed to get over with the crowd. ( He was raising money
to start his restaurant)
Remembering Mrs. Sully always makes my face break out into smiling mode.
Her face was as craggy as a grave, there was an aluminum tooth on the left.
When she smiled, it gleamed with pure happiness, making her stories even better.
When I first met her, her ferocious stories kept my gentle side terrified, for hours.
I thought she was the Hansel and Gretel witch, because she looked like my vision of her.
There was a unique smell around Mrs. Sully, an earthy, vegetable-type smell.
She was always in her garden, killing snakes, big black ones, with large mouths.
She relished showing us how she whacked them with her hoe, hacking them to pieces.
Although short, stooped over and old, she was a force no snake wanted to encounter.
Her stories were full of spit and vim, anger, and devilishly mean murders and such.
If you decided to share a story, she did not hear it, she did not pause if you wanted to talk.
You had to walk along beside her, acting like wearing two or three house dresses
over each other under a pair of overalls was normal, seeing the bibs and lace stick out like crazy.
Her expertise was incessant talking, not waiting for social cues or societal nonsense like that.
She knew about all the hangings that had ever happened in the county, and relished telling
About them in full-force detail, hoping to keep us on our toes, ripe with worry.
All you have to do is mention the words Mrs. Sully, and the old-timers smile, remembering
Those awful hangings, and what happened after the rope was yanked, because we all knew.
Sometimes I swear I see her in her old black hat, pulled down nearly to her eyes,
Stooped carriage, pushing a rusty brown wheelbarrow full of produce, from one farm to another.
We were lucky, our house was smack in the middle, so we would run out and hear the tale of the day.
She owned two properties, a block and a half from each other, one of them had goats.
If we were really lucky, she would have one of her mean goats on a little leash and we could walk our block with it, as it butted us with its angry head.
Rumors said the goats slept in the house with her. It did not matter to me, she was a character
I will never forget her, sometimes picturing that amazing aluminum tooth, which told excellent
Stories. Stories I do not dare tell my own sweet grandchildren, as they stay up too late already.
Puttin’ it all together, no room for squares, ya dig/time slides into somethin’ heavy and the groovers are here/
the jazz creeper solo, struttin’ funk bumpin’, black fire lit from the inside out, Man, it was a city block of sound/
Jazz improvisation listens to the spontaneous birth of melodies, rhythms, and harmonies/
sprung in real-time, right on the edge of the bandstand/ conversation between hands, breath, horn, bass, and the jazz room club/
Dexter Gordon in the shadows, Lonnie Liston Smith whispering keys blowin' high Building solos with a logical sequence of musical phrases/
Tony Williams riding the ride symbol, snare drum popin' the infinite stone cold rhythm walk of free jazz/
Larry Young lighting up the organ like a flying meteor/ man, His atmospheric playing covers the Earth,/
Master Bebopers walk a high wire between learned language and wild grace/personal voice poking through the shared scaffold of not knowin' what is next, but just blowin' free to be jazz/, you hear it in the way a note leans on the next/carries you off into nowhere land with a drink in your hand/ Gone, baby gone like way gone/
a soul jazz funkified phrase that refuses to be clean but combines the classic language with the more " modern" sound of jazz/ A city feel, a spiritual pulse, the sense of a bigger crowd in the corner bar where the spirit lingers, and the groove does not quit/ The Real gone tenor man/ his heartbeat says yes to risk/ always balancing musical structure with the moment, plan to surprise/the old maps of chords bending to the moonlight of invention/In every touch of the keyboard, every drum hit, every horn inhale/ every smokey whale
There’s a doorway to somewhere new—yet somehow familiar/
a dialogue between memory and invention, a dance with possibility/So we ride the breaks, we breathe in the vibe of the day, we trust the moment we let the room answer back with its own echo/until the music feels like a story we’re all writing together/a chorus of names, a chorus of voices, a chorus of tomorrowThat, at the end, is jazz/
The art of balancing the learned with the alive, the safety of the chart and the danger of the spark of Jazz improvisation is always at the fingertips of the jazz masters/the moment when a crowd becomes a chorus, and the solo becomes a home."
You said I fall in love too quickly,
and id have to say you're right.
Sometimes I just look in her eyes,
and everything feels right.
To me she's like cars to a road,
what the sand is to a shore,
to me she's not just a person,
she's much much more.
I keep it as a secret,
I wonder what they'd say.
Its quite a controversial story,
but without her all I see is grey.
She says were just friends,
those words cut me deep.
Its a classic one-sided love story,
I shall not say a peep.
It hurts more than normal,
to know they don't feel the same,
cause to me she is why flowers bloom,
but to her I'm just a name.
(Please leave a comment and let me know what you thought :) )
He came to me in a rhythm, an ordinary Black American woman, age 33
spilling gentile and Pinesol, and debris of his knee\
A couple of diamonds and pearls, said the dream, "Is the dreaming Awakening me, dearie?"
He showed me his face, his Rabbit hair, like a knight in the king's corner of a sultry, satin fair/
a couple of downy llamas and a few more Pinesol, please
I was in Alice in Wonderland's Labyrinth with a bunny-RABBIT, ahem. Please//
His name was Bugs Bunny, that rascally rabbit. He suited up and wore his gauntlet grid and familiarized himself with his Virginian, er, um, Virginity?
He called himself Shuyin, from Final Fantasy X-2, and the added prequel came from me, the Author and the Narrator of the Story.
This a phrase I hear a lot;
Who’s your man, who you got?
Mine’s the man who at games end;
When death has crept up to his cot;
In peace will dream his final dreams;
And these would be those fateful scenes;
A man, a boy, with ball and gloves;
Their eyes alive with a big-league gleam;
In a back yard lit with evening sun;
A mystical moment then on the dream runs;
My man is sitting on a bedroom floor;
Sipping imaginary tea with a girl about four;
She’s telling a story with dramatic flair;
Oh my! But it’s a tale of epic lore;
Dreams shift quickly, so it is with our story;
My man, a woman basking in morning’s glory;
Coffee aroma permeates the air;
They hold hands and he has to stare;
A dream will suddenly fade to black;
But mine’s the man who’d spend his last dime;
To drink imaginary tea, just one more time.
THE COMFORTING GIRLFRIEND CREW
Poor little Pierrette is feeling nostalgic.
Sur la plage, she’d oft look for the boy friend.
Her countenance blue — in teen years tragic,
yet there’s safety in numbers, with girl friends.
Sur la plage, she’d oft look for the boy friend.
Down by the Riviera, whilst she shakes off blue sea
for there’s safety in numbers, with girl friends.
They say, “Won’t you dance the Charleston with me?”
Down by the Riviera, whilst she shakes off blue sea.
Ne’er perfect young ladies, wild with vigor,
They say, “Won’t you dance the Charleston with me?”
Fancy forgetting boyfriends and her perfect figure.
Ne’er perfect young ladies, wild with vigor,
dancing and eating all night pizza.
Fancy forgetting boyfriends and her perfect figure.
Quite unlike West Side Story - Maria.
Dancing and eating all night pizza,
forgetting mantra “I could be happy with you.”
Quite unlike West Side Story - Maria,
she listens to her comforting girlfriend crew.
Forgetting mantra “I could be happy with you.”
(Her boyfriend tried her in a room in Bloomsbury.)
She listens to her comforting girlfriend crew.
(Too old for her...this love’s imaginary.)
Her boyfriend tried her in a room in Bloomsbury.
Her countenance blue — in teen years tragic!
Too old for her...this love’s imaginary.
Poor little Pierrette is feeling nostalgic.
4/6/2018
Silent One’s Music Pantoum Contest
All songs in bold from the musical “The Boyfriend”
I was in this play in Middle School and I am feeling nostalgic.
Sur la plage — on the beach
We see the story (in these names) of those born in Babylon (both figuratively and literally). There are breaches and enchantments and laughter (but You help us understand). While we are serving God, we see His covenants of peace and healing and of being a Helper in times of need, raising us up spiritually and disciplining us as children. You provide the necessities of life. You are to be praised and glorified as You add to Your people the church in the wilderness. Jehovah You are majestic, and Your eyes to pure to look upon all the blatherskites and their behavior. You give good gifts (better than any person gives). You establish justice and Your laws are right (Thy Word is truth). You build up, You tear down. The Earth is Yours to do with as You please. You help us forget our misery because You are our Father, the great God Jehovah is Your name. And as You covenanted with Abraham, You also gave (and gave at the proper time) the Gift of all gifts that is Jesus Who is our salvation. So don’t be shy, ask of God and He will deliver. Ask and you shall see we can be healthy, wealthy and wise in Him. Amen.
Abraham-father of a multitude
Isaac-laughing
Jacob-supplanter
Judas-praise Jah
Phares-a breach
Esrom-enclosed
Aram-height
Aminadab-bounteous people
Naasson-enchanter
Salmon-raiment
Boaz-in him is strength
Obed-serving
Jesse-wealthy
David-beloved
Solomon-peaceful
Roboam-enlarger of the people
Abia-my father is Jah
Asa-physician
Josaphat-whom Jehovah judges
Joram-whom Jehovah has exalted
Ozias-strength of Jehovah
Joatham-Jehovah in upright
Achaz-possessor
Ezekias-the might of Jehovah
Manasses-forgetting
Amon-builder
Josias-whom Jehovah heals
Jechonias-whom Jehovah establishes
Salathiel-I have asked of God
Zorobabel-born of Babel
Abiud-my father is majesty
Eliakim-raising up by God
Azor-helper
Sadoc-just
Achim-the Lord will establish
Eliud-God his Praise
Eleazar-help of God
Matthan-gift
Jacob-heel catcher
Joseph-let him add
Jesus-Jehovah is salvation
There once lived a woman made of Jell-O. She jiggled and wiggled
as she walked. Invisible to most she was as clear as a window pane.
She often wore her heart on her sleeve and ended the day with washed
up colors, kind of like gelatin in hot water.
You can only imagine what happened each time it rained. Bit by bit
she would dissolve, all gelatin molecules and no grit.
Her collagen did bind but didn't stick, for often she cooled but rarely
bonded with another. She lacked courage and brave so they named her
Jello-Mellow. She craved sweeteners such as aspartame and sugar,
and when she didn't get the accolades, she got very very sad.
There once lived a lady with vibrant colors who got washed out by life.
She was a Jell-O Jiggler left at the bottom of the pan too long. Cut into more
shapes and sizes then I could remember. She lived in a box and never
got to see the world. Until one day a good soul took her home.
Together they stuck like two Jell-O Jigglers in one heart shaped box. She was kept out of the rain and she lit up like sunshine.
There once was a woman named Jell-O Jiggler, who traded her Jello for
a dollop of ice cream. You can only imagine what happened when it
rained ! Well that is a story for another day, Heh !
The End.