Long Thursday Poems
Long Thursday Poems. Below are the most popular long Thursday by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Thursday poems by poem length and keyword.
I’m watching a journalist from France 2 or 3,
I watch Olivier Ménard from the TV l'équipe
I spoke to my conscientious mechanic on Thursday,
I observe the little baker who thinks alone,
I read the Blue Tunics, a french comic book,
I listen to my doctor go into retirement,
I watch Ancelloti talking about football,
I think of the city of Rouen, the firefighters
The lyric a great poet of the 19th century,
I marvel at all these nurses,
I fantasize about an actress named Louise,
I vote for a famous red union,
I listen to the raucous view of Radio Nostalgia,
I am thinking of Carrefour hypermarket customers
Alas, alas, only the birds love us.
On Monday morning magpie sang.
I thought it was for me.
He warbled high, he warbled low,
With joy for me to see.
His head leaned back, beak to the sky
The tumbling notes rang out.
He would have sung them anyway
If no one was about.
As sun shone through the misty morn
His song continued clear.
The silences between the tunes
Delightful to my ear.
On Tuesday morning, once again
The scruffy magpie sang.
His liquid notes, from one to next,
All through the air it rang.
‘Twas for himself, the joy of life!
On sunny mornings, sing!
To other creatures, me and them,
True pleasure did it bring.
On Wednesday morning, cleaned the house,
No outside time for me.
On Thursday an appointment made
And that would have to be.
When Friday came I’d quite forgot
To miss my magpie friend.
Then at stormy evening time, I mourned.
I found him dead,
I cried because I realised
That he was old and weak.
But even so he’d sung out clear
And given joy to me.
His song goes on forever
Lilting, weaving through the sky.
A sound like that reverberates
And never will run dry.
Monday, the smell of dark roasted coffee,
And the sweet taste of a crunchy toffee,
Tuesday, the smell of hot chamomile tea,
And the taste of focaccia and brie,
Wednesday, the smell of a cold, angry lime,
And the sour taste of lemonade with thyme,
Thursday, the smell of a cinnamon roll,
And the taste that feels so good for my soul,
Friday, the smell of forest and pine trees,
And the taste of jam and aged blue cheese,
Saturday, the smell of ripe raspberries,
And the taste of dry, sour, red cranberries,
Sunday, the smell of freshly cut wet dill,
And the taste of potatoes on the grill.
On Monday Jay was rather gay
merry I mean not the other way
on his algebra he got an A
boasted a bit in way of a bray
what about Tuesday was it a good day?
Yes, because it’s the day he gets his pay
this was stated by his girlfriend Fay
She is older than most, her hair is gray
Wednesday was a different kind of day
Jay spent the day loading Nebraska hay
then he went swimming down by the bay
with his best friend, a funny guy, Trey
What about Thursday? Asked nosey aunt May
She likes things dreary, gloomy and gray
Should I worry? Do I need to pray?
Quite honestly, I had nothing to say.
I had not seen either Jay or Trey
Maybe they were missing since Thursday.
I knew this would amuse dreary Aunt May
So, I made up a lie said cousin Ray
Pirates snatched them and took them away
because they knew where a treasure lay
Old Aunt May began to moan, chant and sway
When they returned she took credit that day
When traveling a stretch of life's highway
Does it feel like it's uphill both ways?
Does it feel like winter's twelve months long?
Do you work like a dog for small pay?
Well welcome to a newly formed club
The Association of Chronic Bellyachers
We meet every Thursday at the crack of dawn
We're a bunch of cranky “whine” makers
No grins, guffaws, or laughter's allowed
Could be thrown out on your rear
We've a couple of burly guards at the door
Wearing scowls from ear to ear
So if there's really nothing that bugs you
You ain't welcome at one of our meetings
Especially if you're content with your life
You could even end up with a beating
We take this bellyaching seriously you know
It's developed into a new kind of art
The technique we've developed is really simple
Happiness never invades our heart
Now, if the real truth of the matter be known
With tongue planted firmly in my cheek
I'm really this sweet, kind hearted old codger
Never gripes, never lets out a peep!
© Jack Ellison 2013
Driving home with weekly groceries, another Thursday morn
When I see the sun through clouds that seem by blades of lightning torn
And suddenly my head is filled by rhymes I’ll have a go at
And my frozen food’s gonna melt ‘cuz I’m a part-time poet.
I’m on a fishing trip with my husband and some of our friends
And just he and I row out to start the best of all weekends
He drops his line, I watch the sun, shy beauty scared to show it.
And I catch verses in my head ‘cuz I’m a part-time poet!
Even as I am baking a cake for my daughter’s big day
I dream of eighteen years past when in a hospital I lay
With my little angel, then I hear the smoke alarm blow it
I start fresh ‘cuz I’m a full-time mom and a part-time poet!
July 7, 2019
Our dog, Lucky, died on a Thursday.
I decided I could be sad for years,
for months, for a week, or for hours.
So what would alleviate this utter despair
and sadness?
A new dog, of course.
I searched the internet, and discovered
Sophie. Coaxed Joe into meeting the
people at a public place for me.
"She has papers," they told me on the phone.
"She is a purebred cocker."
Sophie is the only dog I have ever met
who was afraid of me.
Afraid of us..
She was a black cocker who looked
like she was starving, and was shaking profusely.
I did not want her around the grandchildren,
but Joe said, "We'll take her," and began handing
over $120 in $20's. That was the price for a pureblood.
I held her on my lap, and we were off.
Sophie reminded Joe of Blondie, a little cocker spaniel
who had been mistreated when he was a little boy.
A cocker spaniel his parents had rescued, to pamper and love.
Sophie has now become Sophie Helen, after Joe's Mom.
She adores me, cannot get enough of me, wants her
butt next to my lower back at all times, especially if
I say, "Night night, Sophie."
Joe held the phone to her ear this week when I
was in the hospital for ulcers and an inflamed colon.
"Go night night," I told Sophie across the phone wires.
Joe said she slept on the top of the couch, looking forlorn,
staring out the window, waiting for her Mommy.
Best $120 we ever spent.
By the way, her papers said
she had shots in January.
I have a football star in my family.
She is my granddaughter and she is thirteen.
A girly-girl when she is not playing defense.
A grizzly bear when she is playing on defense.
I will not get to see her play because I work
And her games start at 3:30 unless I take an hour off my work.
Her next game is her last game. I am debating...
I hear she is really good from my husband who was shocked
Last Thursday that a football game lasts two full hours.
He is not sports-oriented but got a kick out of it this time
Because he is related to a star player, the lone female player.
So did you picture her built like a tank?
She is built like a giraffe with super skinny
Tall legs. It is the beginning of eighth grade so
Of course she is still a head taller than the rest of the team- all boys.
Thursday, March the 5th of the year 2015
Another hockey battle comes along the way
It's a hockey night across the bay
And for the fans, it's a night of pride and respect
Thursday night with the blue and white
Trying to play for their season pride
Thursday night with the black and blue
Trying to play for their playoffs ride
When the dance on the ice begins to ring
Their voices of strong support will begin to sing
With an atmosphere of a pep rally from high school
The cheers of a true fan - a hockey team's supporting tool
Toronto Maple Leafs - the underdog team
Coming away from the bay to fight for respect
Tampa Bay Lightning - the elite team
Coming from the bay to keep their respect
From the cheers of "GO LEAFS GO" away from home
To the cheers of "LET'S GO LIGHTNING" close to home
Hockey Night in Tampa Bay - a worthy game to expect
And their season matchup will be known as "The Hockey Battle of Respect"
narrative poem
It was in the sixth month of the fifth year,
when B. Obama was the president.
I heard the loud noise of many actors -
singing praises, clapping hands in tribute.
Play-acting, cultured lines, memorized songs,
performed by men and women with spirit,
indistinguishable from sincere praise.
Drama entangled with reality.
It was the evening of the fourteenth day,
I had invited a friend out to eat.
A dinner and a show to celebrate
his retirement from a life of teaching.
The play was a homecoming church service;
it honored a pastor who was moving.
Though the scripted testimonies given
were heartfelt, I had a strange sensation.
I kept seeing these same entertainers
in former plays as thieves and infidels.
Make-up, costumes, and props were authentic;
the audience applauded loud and long.
The next day, the fifteenth, was a Sunday.
Hurrying through breakfast, I bathed and donned
my good clothes and best vocabulary.
With Bible in hand, I headed to church.
As always, the praise songs and the scripture
were rehearsed, the bulletin was the script.
The program even listed times for prayer;
I offered my largest bill to the plate.
My worship was a measly performance.
Should they had watched from a balcony pew,
my non-church work friends would have seen me as -
simply another moonlighting actor.
At work last week, I had cussed out the boss.
Three of us sneaked out early last Thursday.
On occasion, I lie and scheme, even
have a good laugh at tasteless, raunchy jokes.
I left church and wandered in deepest thought,
pondering, “What is worship all about?”
An hour alone with God was revealing,
brooding o'er events of the past two days.
My pretense at worship, hypocrisy,
disappointing to God, awkward for me.
A major breakthrough, I just let God talk;
then I apologized for my play-acting.