Long Surname Poems
Long Surname Poems. Below are the most popular long Surname by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Surname poems by poem length and keyword.
Our children bought us DNA tests for Christmas.
Um, why would we want to do this?
What if we wanted to rob a bank or burglarize a home?
Aren’t these results going into an FBI data base?
We did it because they kept asking us about it.
Every nationality I wanted to be, did not show up for me.
My husband who has a German surname has always bragged.
We Germans are smart, we Germans are brilliant, we Germans.
His came back with this result. He is more English than the English.
He is ninety-seven percent English. I laughed my petootie off.
I would have at least half Native American blood, I was sure.
But alas, I did not.
I came out with Swedish, which is oddly odd.
A bit of German which was more than my husband
And mostly Pennsylvania Dutch and English.
I am a mutt, whereas he is a purebred – but not German.
Her treasured summer flower is the rose
And for the gloaming she effuses praise.
Longfellow's verse this lady clearly knows
And dearly was she loved in childhood days.
At times lighthearted, she has made us smile
But sorrow too has oft been given voice.
She writes with eloquence and rhythmic style
Of how creation makes her heart rejoice.
Her first name is the surname of a bard
And novelist of Dublin's proud descent
Whose works were once considered avant-garde.
The surname links a Texan President.
I'm sure that you, like me, will all agree
That this sweet lady well deserves a cheer
We prize the gift of her longevity
Which brings poetic pleasure year on year.
20.09.19
Pick A Friend On Soup Poetry Contest : sponsored by Bobby May -revised
First name
unique, generous, wondrous, enigmatic, hopeful
Sister of Madonna, Gail, Chris, Diane and Heather
Lover of life, puzzles, people's laughter and language
Who feels loves intensity with hope
Who fears the dark, enclosed spaces, yet feels fearless in the breeze
Who would like to see the masses succeed
Resident of home, a warm embrace, a tender touch
Surname
I found this structure boring and unimaginative and mundane in a world enriched with such flavoursome musings - I unapologetically ruined the form with pride and decided the words below were more entertaining for your reading pleasure... Enjoy me
An ounce of ratbag, a giggle, a bounce and slide,
she puts on her socks and polishes the floor with her moves,
the running dive onto the bed is never a question and she loves to sneak up and tickle.
Frosted grass, and a breaky sunrise eaten from the curb, delights her heart and inspires her mind.
Her one love - a child of impossibility - held on by hope; a chance to live, to laugh.
Intrigued by the landscape of colour, enlightened by touch, cleansed in a breeze.
A smile to light up the dark, delivers a truth profound, generous in love in all its forms.
A dancer in a world of statues, grounded and real, she will lift you up and hold you til your ready.
Musically, she paints the tragic world with grace, sensually depicting each space, raw and defined.
A family of separated ties has carved an independence so fierce she is rarely displaced.
Adopted by the masses, free in spirit she maintains faith, home is all she needs and finds that in many: a comfortable easy smile, a gift of coffee, an open door - embraced.
Loved.
A friendship gift, a unique beautiful ride, buckle up she's arrived...
17/10/2018
free verse or poetry prose
Hey Sis,
next Monday I'm going home again
It's been fifty or more years
I've lost count.
I can still taste the dust of
traveling with the car windows down.
Do you remember the few times our older
brother would let one of us
open and close the cattle gates
once we got off the main road?
There were at least three double
stops and starts along the way.
Do you remember the gray ramshackle house,
which won't be there I am sure.
Do you remember the old well, which
will be filled in or at least covered.
First thing, I will check the cemetery for the
graves of our great aunts who were
still living when we last visited the farm.
Next week, I will find the graveyard
has now been fenced with our surname on the
gate. I have seen pictures on the Internet.
I will check for great-granddaddy's
stone which I have seen but don't
remember. There won't be any
stops and starts for there is a new lane
called Cemetery Lane which looks to be
graveled and well-kept.
When I get back home I will call you
and tell you about the trip and all the
new things I will have discovered going home
again. You will ask a hundred or more
questions which I won't be able to answer.
Don't anyone tell me you can't go home again.
I'm going, knowing it won't be the same
but confident it will be well-worth the trip to
find what has changed.
written 25/Sep/2014
Dear Father
(if that title ever belonged to you)
You were never a man.
You were an absence with a name.
You married a woman you did not protect,
broke her until survival looked like escape,
then watched her walk into the dark
with a baby in her arms
and called it not your problem.
You left us to hunger.
To beg.
To sleep wherever mercy failed last.
I watched other children stand tall
on shoulders you built for them,
while I learned early
how to fold myself smaller
so I would not be noticed,
so I would not be rejected again.
Your other children carry your surname like Armor.
I carry it like a wound.
When you died, nothing in me collapsed
because nothing was ever built.
No bedtime stories.
No hands to pull me back from danger.
No voice saying you are safe now.
Just silence.
Long.
Loud.
Cruel.
And yes
I blame you.
I blame you for the nights
my mother lied to my face with a smile
while terror shook her from the inside.
For the streets of Malvern at
2 a.m.,
where a woman and her child learned
how invisible desperation can be.
I blame you for the doors that closed
because we were poor,
because we were mixed,
because we were inconvenient.
You knew she was weak.
You knew she could not fight the world alone.
You knew what would happen to us
and still you chose comfort
over responsibility,
over blood,
over me.
I became a burden before I became a child.
Shelter came with conditions.
Silence came with survival.
And I learned that pain is something
you swallow whole
when speaking would cost you the ground beneath your feet.
You were supposed to be my roots.
Instead, I grew in cracks.
Bent.
Bruised.
Trampled.
People ask why I lack confidence.
How do you stand tall
when no one ever taught you
you had the right to exist?
I was never your angel.
I was never anyone’s priority.
I was just the consequence
of a man who walked away.
So don’t ask me to mourn you.
Don’t ask me to forgive you.
You died a stranger
who shaped my suffering from afar.
You were my father only in biology
never in love,
never in protection,
never in presence.
And if hell exists,
know this:
I survived you.
And you will never be able to say the same
Having met with an untimely
grimm death
After loosing his property monopoly
In pursuit of trivial gain
Using eloquent intellect scrabble
word's in order to create reasonable doubt
Until all the dominoes have fell
Knight takes Queen
The game is up Professor Plum
Do not pass go directly to jail
And serve 21 year's
For killing Lady Solitaire
In the games room
By poisoning her pieces of
cheese, pie, tiles and dominoes
And i think you will find that
is both check and mate
God i love these murder mystery
games
My surname may well in fact be
Watson but when it comes to
games call me Sherlock
(Me slippery fingers slither,
slip and slide splashing ala
Jackson Pollock), sans slap
dash experimental, swiftly
tailored and harried writing
style, yes on par with purging,
spewing, venting...unexpurgated,
unexpressed, unexplained...
words, which this Engelbert
Humperdinck singer/songwriter,
(whose name inexplicably popped
into the mind of this Dadaist)
offers "FAKE" apology for any
self inflicted, or sadomasochistic
flagellated cranial contusions
out of utter futility to make sense
regarding following gobbledygook!
GOOD LUCK!
Mine groovy palmar flexion creases
forever moistened by porous size
damn leaking levees provoking deluge
outranking Biblical flood - handy history
(in miniature) replete with Ark keel
logical artifacts discovered by hall n
oats marked wainwright - about 10 stone and
5 pound huckster, circa Fin de siècle,
when callous ten hooks (calisthenics,
eh) caught without Noah shadow of a
doubt proof positive by Matthew Scott,
(amat sure his surname) linkedin to storied
testament rivalling epic of Gilgamesh,
nee the entire spoilers alerts since
dawn of civilization writ small impossible
mission to decipher indelibly etched,
(what appear as Egyptian hieroglyphics),
methinks his perspiration contains
preservative agent, (a natural formaldehyde
like substance) generated nsync to maintain
eternal youthfulness, which stumps
medical community, and earned him
hashtagged "hotmail" (eagerly sought
after human commodity), a blessing
and curse palms plagued with chronic
wetness, yet lines (little flushed streams
of consciousness) rowed by itty bitty
teensy weensy merry daydreamers harkens
back when life held faint promise for
scattered (contra) bands of bipedal
hominids fiercely competing with trumpeting
(Taj Mahal sized) beasts (donned tousled
windswept hirsute trademark) Euclid
heir'm barreling along barren steppes
all around the one straggly mulberry bush,
where one pensive monkey (protohuman)
chased the weasel all around the world wide web.
Ah, Divine influence, it has come to many, so they say,
as to their nameless or named God’s they do pray.
The light came to Carroll, he said he could see,
for raised by a Vicar at Christ church was he.
Dodgson was his surname an apt moniker
for he veers of from his father, made math his liqueur
Lewis was Charles tongue in cheek, he wore hats
and from his birth place, he transformed Cheshire cats.
Lewis Carroll wrote “Alice” sure, he was also Charles Dodgson
but who wrote the marrow, now that’s where the God comes!
Now, many men wrote the Bible or so we surmise
and the pages they garnered came in random sizes.
Yes they picked, they plucked, these men were right scary
and what do you know, left out the Book of Mary!
Now you modern readers just might take a note
the resemblance twixt Alice and Mary's no anecdote.
Dogdson, yes Carroll, knew Mary so it seems
yet, Alice sweet Alice is who came in his dreams.
Carroll clothed Alice and it's no surprise
that in Chapter 3:21, her dress he seeks dried!
For Alice, dear Alice, did not wish to die!
“She would catch a bad cold if she could not get dry.”
Carroll being the kind creator, he would
had the mouse read to Alice the driest of books.
Again and again, his benevolence is shown
when he sends Alice a rabbit to soon lead her home.
So, we are lead on in most delightful detail
to Chapter 4:15 where her flight is curtailed.
As Cain slew Abel, so the Queen beheaded prates.
Yet, she’d no power at all, over bodiless cats!
Now, Chapter 12 is truly my favorite, as you may surmise
Lewis Carroll has dreamed much of caterpillar size..
He dreamed a whole world full of goodness and villainy.
As anyone can see, men will see what they see,
and the Looking Glass has as much meaning to me
as the Bible may have to the Christians, let be.
My name is Zariyia Bradshaw;
I am a princess, a Daughter of the Most High God;
His child a little girl;
Surname: Bradshaw;
Distinguished;
Child of promised Little Daughter of God;
Old English name from century Lancashire-Yorkshire and Derbyshire;
From form of Old English meaning Brad (broad) sceaga thicket;
My name is Zariyia Bradshaw;
Bradshaw call a surname, generations old;
Inherited from one's parents;
Whereby children are given their father's family name;
American names are traditionally patrilineal,
First name Zariyia, meaning she’s lit, a light;
Shines on in the dawn, ever so bright;
Daughter of God;
My name is Zariyia Bradshaw;
I am a daughter of the Most High, y’all;
Zariyia Sunrise, sunshine;
Heralding a fresh start;
Zariyia a rose, Arabic, Hebrew, Nigerian word name meaning also “flower”;
God has helped empower Zariyia in Hebrew a princess daughter;
A blossoming flower vibrant spiritual name chosen for beauty and power;
Beauty and light a scattering wind;
I am a child of Daughter of the King;
My name is Zariyia Bradshaw;
I am beauty-I am light-I am a scattering wind;
I am sunrise/sunshine- a flower
I am dawn ever so bright
I am a glowing light
Distinguished;
I am a princess, a Daughter of the Most High God;
A little girl empowered
Surname Bradshaw;
My name is Zariyia Bradshaw;
I am a daughter of the Most High, y’all;
5/20/23
Written words by James Edward Lee Sr. 2023©
If I were a man, I'd flaunt our love for the world to see.
I'd openly hold your hand beneath the blue sky.
But I can only give you my all behind closed doors, for the world cannot stomach our love.
If I were a man, children would see us and think, "I want a love like that."
But too many are taught to look away.
For our love makes them uncomfortable.
If I were a man, no one would ask me to choose between my faith and my heart.
But somehow, I am expected to bury one to keep the other.
If I were born a man, I'd give you my surname in the name of everything they call holy, or i would take yours.
I'd promise forever before family, friends, and strangers.
But instead, our forever is spoken in whispers, where no one is listening.
If I were born a man, we'd grow old without our love becoming a political debate.
But our existence seems to invite opinions from strangers.
If I were born a man, we would dream of little hands with your smile and my eyes—
tiny echoes of us, proof that love leaves fingerprints long after we're gone.
Instead, our future must be imagined before it can ever be lived.
If I were a man, I'd introduce you without rehearsing the conversation first.
But every introduction feels like a confession.
Waiting for our sentence- wondering if we'll be deemed innocent or guilty.
If I were a man, my grandmother would pray for our happiness.
But instead, she prays for my salvation.
If I were a man, I would never have to wonder whether introducing you would cost me a home, a job, or a family.
I would simply say, "This is the love of my life," and that would be enough.
If I were a man, I'd kiss you at train stations and airports without checking who was watching.
But I have learnt to love you with one eye on the exit.
If I were a man, loving you would be ordinary.
No debates.
No prayers trying to change me.
No strangers deciding whether my heart deserves rights.
If I were a man, the world would stand in awe of how completely you occupy my heart and mind.
They would call it devotion. They would call it romance.
Instead, they call it confusion.
A phase.
A sin.
If I were a man, loving you wouldn't be a sin nor would it be immoral.
But I was born a woman...
And so were you.