Long Swung Poems
Long Swung Poems. Below are the most popular long Swung by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Swung poems by poem length and keyword.
“Thank God the Weekend’s Over”
©2021 Jerry Brotherton
It’s time to get up and go to work, that old alarm clock said.
It’s Monday and I still have her, rolling around in my head.
It’s six o’clock in the morning, and I’m feeling half past dead.
Thank God the weekend’s over, if I can just get out of bed.
Chorus:
There’s something about the weekend,
that can make me lose my mind.
Only when I drink tequila,
chased with a salted lime.
Sometimes it’s hard to remember,
the good times they say I had.
But if I wake up on Monday,
it couldn’t have been that bad.
Friday at the watering hole, I was drinking Bud and gin.
When the door swung open, and a golden light cascaded in.
If she was not heaven’s angel, she sure as hell should have been.
Just watching her assets swaying gave me goosebumps on my skin.
She strolled over to my table, said, “I hate to drink alone.”
“Have a seat”, I tried to say, but all that came out was a moan.
Electricity flashed, like a hurricane hit’n a cyclone.
And before the night was over, my paycheck was all but gone.
(Repeat Chorus)
We danced until my feet hurt, then we would drink and dance some more.
She floated like a feather, across the sawdust-covered floor.
We closed down that tavern, then we found an all-night liquor store.
She said let’s go back to my place, what are we standing here for.
We went to her apartment, my mind was in a little haze.
But I know one thing for sure, we set the morning sun ablaze.
It was a glorious encounter, that filled the next two days.
Didn’t know two people could be together, in so many ways.
(Repeat Chorus)
When Sunday’s sun went down, she said, “Cowboy, it’s been fun for sure.”
You’re the best one so far, it’s a shame we don’t have time for more.
She said this is a one-time thing, and she led me across the floor.
She shoved me out the window, as her husband walked in the door.
It’s time to get up and go to work, that old alarm clock said.
It’s Monday and I still have her, rolling around in my head.
It’s six o’clock in the morning, and I’m feeling half past dead.
Thank God the weekend’s over, but I don’t think I can get out of bed.
Yea, thank God the weekend’s over, and I’m still alive today.
The party barn was in full swing
The fiddler bouncing with every bow string
The base player setting the rhythm loud
Bales of hay supporting the crowd
As I scanned the room with care
She swung her curly blonde hair
Stopping me still like glue on the ground
She danced like no-one was around
Her summer dress flowed with every swing
Through her draped hair I seen a cheeky grin
Arms in the air like first place winner
Her boots kicking up dust through sunbeam glitter
Plucking the courage up to find this beauties story
Ends up on the other end of glory
My feet just would not move
Frozen with nervous moods
Looking directly in her direction I noticed him
A tall cowboy, black boots, shirt and hat with white trim
He confidently took her by the hand
And led her infront of the band
Swirling her around and picking her up
Well that's it for me, no chance I give up
Who was this beauty that graced my day?
Was he her man or just a dance floor date?
Well I guess I'll never know
Police arrived and broke up the show
Body's running in all directions
I lost site of her glowing reflections
I still think of her and wonder in vain
Will she ever grace me with her presence again?
Along the upper estuary,
boats laid beached on mud
like whales you see
on news clips stranded
helpless in the drained shallows
of a low tide. These boats
too were out of their natural world
of water and easy float,
their freedom was the distance
swung on the arc of a rope.
We would clamber up their listing
hulls and into the ribbed
bellies of the bigger boats,
huddle in the dank,
fish foul air of cabins
and turn wheels hard to port.
They were the holds loaded
with the cargoes of our childhood.
Later, there was a sad absence
occupying the helm, neglect
peeling the paint and seeding
rot into weathered timber.
They stunk of decay.
Most boats were abandoned,
fastened for years
to the monotony of tides,
sentenced for life
to lift and fall on the same spot
or sink and be broken up.
And yet they remain anchor points
to what is real, positioned
as it were in a world where things
can be felt, have substance
and assume a shape
mirrored in your mind.
They float secure
on a sea of nothingness whose
sterile depths beckon and beguile
and would claim poetry
to feed the ethereal swans
of Stephane Mallarme.
Here is where a poem
has a smell as well
as make you feel and think
without recourse to meaning,
becoming mere magic.
OL'E TY COBB OF YESTER YEAR,
WAS A GENIUS IN SPIKES, OR SO I HEAR.
HE RAN THE BASES WITH A BURST OF SPEED.
LIKE ADRENALINE JUNKY IN TIME OF NEED.
STOLE SECOND BASE WITH HIS FOOT HELD HIGH.
A SERIOUS THREAT TO SPIKE ONES EYE.
LIT UP THE CHARTS, WITH ALL HIS STATS.
TRIPLE CROWN WINNER AND THATS A FACT.
NINETEEN-ELEVEN (1911), COBB SET THE PACE.
WITH A FOUR-TWENTY(.420) AVERAGE, HE STOLE EIGHTY-THREE (83) BASE.
LED THE LEAGUE IN TRIPLES FOUR (4)TIMES.
HOMERUN KING NINETEEN-O-NINE (1909).
CHECK HIS STATS, HE LED THEM ALL.
THAT TY COBB COULD PLAY BASEBALL.
THIRTEEN THOUSAND-0- SEVEN-EIGHT(13,078).
NUMBER OF APPEARANCES MADE AT THE PLATE.
DON'T FORGET THE BASE ON BALL.
TWELVE-FORTY-NINE (1,249)AND THAT'S NOT ALL.
FOURTY-ONE HUNDRED EIGHTY-SIX (4,186)HITS.
THE RESULTS OF THE WAY HE SWUNG THAT STICK.
BATTING CHAMP ELEVEN (11) DIFFERENT TIMES.
WON NINETEEN TWELEVE (1912)WITH A FOUR-O-NINE (409).
LED EIGHT TIMES, IN TOTAL WITH HITS.
LED STOLEN BASES WITH A TOTAL OF SIX.
EIGHT-NINETY-TWO (892)TOTAL STOLEN BASES.
IMAGINE THE LOOK ON THOSE CATCHERS FACES.
TWENTY-TWO-HUNDRED FORTY-SIX RUNS.
AFTER TWENTY-FOUR SEASONS, HIS CAREER WAS DONE.
HE ONLY STRUCK OUT SIX-EIGHTY(680) TIMES.
OVER TWENTY-FOUR SEASONS, THAT BLOWS MY MIND.
HALL OF FAMER, THATS A FACT.
WITH HIS NINETEEN-THIRTY-SIX HALL OF FAME PLAQUE.
GEORGIA PEACH IS DEAD AND DONE.
JULY SEVENTEEN SIXTY-ONE. A
A HUNDRED YEARS HAVE COME AND GONE,
THAT TY COBB LEGEND, STILL LIVES ON.
Saying goodbye for once and for all.
Phone's disconnected, so no need to call.
The answer's been written so many times.
If you have a question, just read the rhymes.
Sometime's some people's lives are no good.
People just say they didn't do what they should.
But if you look closer you'll see beyond that.
For they certainly swung when their turn came to bat.
A faith in a trust of a forgotten promise.
Where betrayal of love left no one to kiss.
As ocean's and time do their dance of destruction.
The world keep's on turning with new love's obstruction.
The clock will be ticking when all has been said.
But this heart already feels like it's dead.
All that is left is an endless recital.
Of pain in a soul that's just suicidal.
What good is a poem of such needless rebuttal.
When no love's in sight, not even a cuddle.
Existing alone with no where to turn.
Is not worth the lesson to continue to learn.
My friends and I had midnight hide and seek
One had to stand by a tree and not peek
In my state of hiding great I was hard to find
My friends decided to just be unkind
They all got together and decided to hunt me down
I first hid in the river near my house and almost drown
When they walk close by me I silently move through the grass
It was very hard to see, but I crawled a long time and almost ran out of gas
Then I heard one say that they were going up and wait by the tree
I had an idea that made a way to make them see
A shadow that ran in the distance thinking that would be
I had my horse pull a little manikin to make them think it was me
My friends took their flashlight and shined it toward it
I thought I had them but one thing was clear they did not fall for it not a bit
They all laugh and started to call out my name
They all asked how the heck did you have time to pull that trick that was so lame
I did not answer so they kept on looking for me, but I was so quick
Some of my friends started to get really mad and tick
I was a master of doing weird things they all knew what I can do
The night was still young and the grass was collecting dew
I decided to make a distraction once again
To think of it, it would probably make the night end
My friends finally surrounded my tree house
I was quiet, so quiet, more than a mouse
I had some rope in the tree house to make my escape
To distract them I made a loud noise like an ape
The tree that my tree house was in was at least forty feet up
I had some stash in my tree house a drink or two in a cup
My final hour is about to end I did not want my friends to catch me till I got to the tree
I took the rope and tide it on a branch and pushed off and that was the key
I landed on the garage roof and sneaked my way to the tree
My friends knew me to well that they plan things before I could see
They had a fish net ready for me to step into
I thought that was kinda wise and some what like pew
The few feet by the tree there was two of my friends that was ready
Up in the tree they both jumped down and pulled me up in the net fast and steady
They thought they had won, the person had to tag me before I touch tree
She ended up having to get something to stand on to reach me
I swung my weight back and forth till I ended up touching and the game ended
My friends and I were so full of surprises and that is what the game handed
At twilight I sang
through veils of darkness,
as moon turned heads
with her crescent mourning,
and yesterdays permeate
within this etherized rhythm,
the metronome swung
a lifetime within a crescendo,
violet tears seeped octaves
and feel distantly,
to move in life
and shivers took hold
in old lanes paved
with tears of stone,
streets littered with
tissues of newspaper,
blowing to roll
as a string of
breath past,
dustbins filled with organs
necessary removals of survival,
now
breathe with life again
amethyst and gold leaf,
press all roads of now
to rain,
with feathers of faith
with the debris of horror
gasping at routes end,
a mercy,
street-sweepers cleared
to guard
waiting for the call
to a final reckoning
now as midnight chants,
striking
every memory of horror!,
crushing each torture!
till,
they are nevermore
I sing with amethyst ether
tendril-ed from my lips,
and I forgive them all
in one breath
Our Friend Bobo
By Curtis Johnson
More than fifty years ago, there was a drowning in my little home town.
Back then, we chopped cotton by the day, and picked cotton by the pound.
For us, there was no sliding boards or public play grounds.
There was no hanging bars, see-saw sets, or merry go rounds.
There was no swing sets to zip us back and forth through the wind.
But there was deep poverty, and pleasantries were few back then.
There was no swimming pools for us on hot, humid, and toasty days.
There was no nice and safe places to cool off, but we had our ways.
There was water in the creek, and we saw no signs saying, “Do No Jump In”.
There was the mud, the pollution, and the stench, but we still jumped in.
We swung from tree limbs, flashed and dashed in the muddy waters.
We knew we would stink, but we were hot, and nothing else mattered.
What did matter was that one day our friend Bobo died in the muddy creek.
Bobo went under, and we soon realized that he was not playing hide and seek.
We soon ran for help, and all the people and authorities were gathered.
They pulled Bobo’s body from the bottom, and our souls were sad and tattered.
cj071407
I stepped up to the plate,
with my old, familiar stance,
thinking my set routine,
would parry the pitcher’s prance.
The first was a curved ball,
curiously spun with such intrigue.
I watched it drift in, then away,
off the plate. A ball!
The next was a fast-ball, right on line.
I swung too early, too locked up in dreams,
Convinced I was right, as ever, this time!
A Strike! Being right on line. It ain't divine!
I saw the third pitch dip out of the hand,
I flinched with doubt, opting out, I folded.
It was a knuckle ball! I bailed too fast —
Missed the moment, let it pass! Strike 2!
A slider sent, brought my memories to the fore,
I thought back to what I'd done before.
When the ball leather smelled so fresh.
Sure enough a Hit, but alas, a Foul.
The fifth came cloaked in abject silence.
No wind, no banter, just hollow air.
I was frozen out, by the silent treatment,
Left waiting, waiting, burning insane.
I swung too late! Phew! Ball 2!
Then came the soft one, slow and low,
a change-down thrown, as pitcher sunk low —
with eyes half-closed, head bowed,
in a sorta 'It's ME Time' trance!
A hit! It soared, the crowd went wild —
A Home run for the inner child!
Now my stance, is more tuned,
more still, more considered.
Reading each pitch as it comes,
not too heartfelt nor willful.
Not naming the pitch, nor predicting it,
just knowing when to wait,
to bend and meld, to get an even break.
I can't picture things like other people do;
But I think of that photo.
I feel the pain in my face,
And I remember thinking;
"I should have been there, how could I leave my mum there".
I felt like I'd left her for this to happen,
I ran away as soon as I could and left her there.
Mum was never the problem.
I love my mum.
I miss her.
And my mum is still alive,
She's moved far away and my dad only lives with her part time now.
But it is burned into the corners of my mind;
That photo made me realize;
I'm just like my mother.
My fianceé hasn't lashed out in months,
But last time he did,
I laid there and I thought of mum.
I was walking away from a fight with him.
He grabbed me and threw me on the floor.
I got up and tried to leave, he wrapped his arms around my waist and picked me up,
Then threw me back down.
I didn't get back up.
I just covered my head with my arms and waited.
He stood over me and he swung his foot towards my chest - and the impact knocked the air out of my lungs.
And then, he did it again. And then again.
I said "stop" so many times.
His foot would hit my shoulder or my chest, and I'd be shoved back and my back and my neck would hit the table legs behind me.
I said I was sorry. I said stop.
Then I heard my dad's words in my fiancees voice:
He asked me,
"what are you gonna do?"
For the first time in 7 years with him;
I said;
"I could call the cops."
He said "call them" and he kicked me in the face.
I didn't call the cops, I was scared of them showing up at my house.
But I didn't dismiss what I was thinking about my mum.
I didn't shove it into the back of my mind and say "this is different, he loves me".
I called a women's shelter.
Mum doesn't have to worry.
I will not be a punished woman.
She told me I have to be stronger than her;
And that doesn't mean I have to be strong and put up with it.
She was telling me to leave.
She told me,
"Love is a b*@#$ when you've got it for the wrong person".
And I'm gonna listen, mum.
I'm sorry it took me this long.