Long Terry Poems
Long Terry Poems. Below are the most popular long Terry by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Terry poems by poem length and keyword.
When we learned our elderly, kind granddad had died,
all paternal cousins traveled, gathered and cried.
Later, the ‘reception drive’ offered varied rides;
in Rachel’s auto, they shared a liquor-filled flask
and in Rob’s ancient van, a joint or two was passed.
If any cousin did not seek a high that day,
Terry drove sober now that she was freely gay.
At the reception, we all loved, giggled and shared.
Funny, that the sober car was the last one there!
In time, we caught up using our familiar flair.
Rob, Rachel and Rita’s Father had been paroled.
Rob still refused to pay taxes or live controlled.
Rachel lost her job when her flask fell out and rolled.
Rita found Jesus after holding marigolds
and walking naked down a long suburban road.
Mark was racing fast cars, playing music in bars
and had built a planetarium to view stars.
His maternal grandmother supplied the dollars
so why not avoid wearing a working collar?
Terry shared the same dollars-aplenty, flow-jar.
She had just graduated college with honors,
moved in with Sue (who then quit work as a mauler),
and now barely leaves their home built near water.
I shared my struggle to work a forty-hour week,
make sure my special needs child never feels defeat
and bear my third spouse, who keeps a petulant heat.
When a toast or a toke to Granddad was complete,
Mark grabbed his guitar and set a steady, good beat.
Each cuz, in turn, sang their made up line which was neat:
“We’re from the family tree of true dysfunction.
What others call stupid, we see as brave gumption.
We do not take kindly to outside instruction
stalling our families’ chaotic production.
If we pass loud gas, we won’t care if others laugh.
Now, just like real life, our song has gone off track.”
The Dodo, it’s curious
Lived down in Mauritius
A bit east of Madagascar,
You can’t get there with your car.
It’s an island, and it’s quite remote
But you wouldn’t need an overcoat
You won’t get there with your time machine
Unless your machine floats.
Right off the Indian continent,
If a Dodo was incontinent
What would he wear not to spill content?
Well, that just Depends…
‘Cuz how would they pull them up,
Or change them when they’re full up?
A question supposable
When they haven’t the opposable.
A question pretty clumsy
And I'm just all thumbsy
And it doesn't matter, 'cuz they're all extinct,
I just know that it stinks.
There’s one thing I’m sure I know
If I had a pet Dodo
I might call him Bilbo
But more likely it would be Frodo
And I’d have me a hobbit hole
For all of those Depends, you know
And that's where all the dirties go,
And I’d call it Bag End.
H/T to Terry Flood’s Do Dodos Do Doo Doos
For Terry Flood,* since you insist,
Here, in rhyme’s my shopping list:
Orange juice and Starbuck’s (iced,
Even though it’s overpriced),
Bagels, Swiss and muenster cheese,
Whitefish salad, frozen peas,
Broccoli and salad greens,
Carrots, berries, nectarines,
Melons, muffins, chocolate treats,
Licorice or gummy sweets,
Ice cream, cookies, corn chips, bread,
Hummus, pesto, peppers (red),
Eggs and butter, IPA’s,
Pasta meant for many days,
Chicken, mushrooms, sometimes meat –
Think that makes my list complete.
(For omissions, I’m to blame
Since rhyme, not shopping, was my aim!)
*a fellow poet on Poetry Soup
A potter went down to the edge of the water
To ask of an otter a gift for his daughter.
Go ask the weasel; he paints at his easel.
His fees will be low; his currency’s diesel.
He didn’t have diesel; he took him some gas.
The weasel: offended; the convo was fast.
You’d best see the heron, but take him a fork;
He’s worn out his beak from eating pulled pork.
He found heron singing, but way out of tune.
Old heron laughed, “Pork? Not anytime soon!
I’m trying to spoon with my lady the stork,
But she says my croon needs a G tuning fork.”
You might see the beaver: a bit of a weaver.
Builds dams with sticks; that’s if you believe her.
So off trod the potter and down to the dam.
He knocked on the door; she called, “Here I am!”
He explained what he needed; she shook her head, “Nay,
For I fear that the dam’s sprung a big leak today,
Unless, by some chance, you have got some spare clay?”
Well, they rolled up their sleeves, and they both went to work;
That potter threw clay, beaver’s tail went berserk.
They tidied all up, and they sat down for tea,
And the potter said, “Why are you laughing at me?”
Cuz you’ve got mad skills, throw your daughter a pot.
Put on a nice glaze and she’ll love it a lot.
So the potter went home, and well, you know the rest:
With style and panache, he threw her his best.
And then he surprised her at dinner that night;
She squealed, and she kissed him and hugged him real tight.
I didn’t know what to get, if you’d like it or not.
After all, it’s just clay fashioned into a pot.
Oh, daddy, you’re silly; it’s not about the clay,
But the love you poured in when you made it today.
—————
H/T to Terry Flood’s Zoo-nado; sometimes, nonsense makes the most sense
Reclaimation
Recyclation
Drilling into
stone to
manage water
waters to be
reclaimed
stored and
reused.
Then how might
I speak such when
My existence can
be questioned in
opposition to my
Claim.
Fro. Stranger to
Less strained.
Might the freindly
way of sacred
trust trickle upon
the stranger
Uncitifed to be
Country enough
to be Human!
The bassoons stopped when
the piccalos spoke of reclaimation
and desaltifcation
To let the cymbals speak to
trumpeted muses.
Oh clear!
Might my waters
Quinch my thirsty
Palate.
When they speak me
as existed, to make
Me evil and my
exhistance vain!
Sarah of Raleigh Durieum!
Summa Thyme
I want for you to say
Cause I wanna put mi
Light shades on !
By
A. C. Terry Jr.
Trying not to surcum to her feminine charm
As she just fills you with a false sense of belief
Though lustful eyes when she grabs your arm
It is only then do you see her fangg liked teeth
To her though your weakness is your vonrability
But she dose quite often go for that type of guy
The ones that she can consume more quickly
And then you are just another left high and dry
I'm told she has done the same to many a fellow
Watch out if ever this girl dose come your way
As shes like the female spider, the black widow
And you to her are nothing, other than her pray
She looks for anyone who will quech her thirst
She's nothing more than a lire a theif and cheat
You could be the last but defernity not the first
To have been caught up in her web of deciet.
Note this an idea from an old write I had called devious her name
Wanted to alaberate a little bit more on this trying touse metaphores
but also at same time keep simple
>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>
inspierd by all the soup poets pd laura rebbeca donna terry sandra
anne louise ect allthe others xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>
kind of part two to devious was her name.......................
The talent of this England team
Will overcome the rest
Because the players on display
Are simply the best.
James our keeper will save every shot
He's experienced and so cool
Glen Johnson and Ashley Cole
The defence they both will rule.
John Terry solid as a rock
With King at his side
While Lennon and Joe Cole
Control the play out wide.
The creative skill of Lampard
And captain Gerrard too
Will create a hole in any defence
No matter what they do.
Peter Crouch up front is so tall
He reminds me of a Giraffe
When he scores and does that dance
He really makes me laugh.
Wayne Rooney wow what can I say
The best of the best
He's like a little bulldog
With three lions on his chest.
Our manager Fabio Capello
A master of the game
If we don't bring back the cup
We're only ourselves to blame.
There was a man,
Who lived in wales,
Lived a boring life,
And worked in sales.
He went to the pub,
Almost every day,
At night he came home,
On the sofa, he’d lay.
Chippy every Friday,
He’d have for his teas
Chips and gravy,
And a tub full of peas
He had an umbrella,
To battle the gails,
After all he lived,
In the hills of Wales.
A quiet little village,
The community so sweet,
Surrounded by fields,
Of barley and wheat.
A picturesque place,
A postcard place,
A place to put,
A smile on your face.
His name was terry,
Lived to a ripe old age,
Of ninety four,
Like his wife, Sage.
A boring old life,
But the best that they had,
Enjoyed every minute,
Not a moment being sad.
Terry and sage,
Grew up together,
Shared the umbrella,
And battled the weather.
The nice old lady,
Terry working on sales,
Had the best life,
At a village in wales
Members of the soup,
Every one a cool poet
An exstraudany group,
And they should know it
Breidenthal - Laura
Lucas - Rebecca
Cook - Samantha
- Jessica
Adams - Sandra
Leonora - Galinta
Reed - Karma
Everyone has such insight
I just love your every write
Tanya - harrington
Kerry - singleton
Rachel - hefinton
Anne - Lise Andresen
Rufferd - Anne
Harry - Horsman
Your work so spick and spam
Everyones seems so glam
Carol - brown
Dawn - mclunghlin
Anne - curin
And S - Erin
I love everyone's writing
All of you so enlighting
Tsiluma - Vicky
Hasle - Connelly
Catie - Lindsey
(Linda) - P,d
And Terry - Oleary
I love everyone's poetry
You all inspier me
Lina etling
The scipt
The scibe
I love all of it
Such a cool vibe
Any names I've forgot
please do forgive me
love you all too alot
Your's sincerely
David Scott X
I look forward to reading more of your works
Thank you for insperation Im touched in so many ways
At least theres still some people left in the nation
To brighten up the shitty days,,,,,,,D.S,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,x
PS SORRY IF MISSSPELT SOME NAMES OR NAMES BACK
TO FRONT TRYING TO ADD RYME IN SORT OF LETTER RAP STLYE
poverty's sharp edges cut off the grey beggar tonight.
monsoon rains overpoured, becoming grave floods, sweeping him
from the bridge, where he had often trolled with a fair measure of hope.
between coal-coloured stalactite teeth, his gross breath, wan mouth,
an endangered smile, oily eyes, raisin skin, copper hair;
loose, smutty digits outstretched for some particular solution—
change to spare, a bottle of coke, a hot dog, a lead pipe.
living phantom rattled young children, disquieted air
of the earth, his chamber and bath (ordinarily trivial)
to those beyond stones, cloth huts, the doldrums of the have-nots,
targets of practising mendicants—grateful for temu,
the credit card religions, pseudo-prada, black friday options