Long Waists Poems
Long Waists Poems. Below are the most popular long Waists by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Waists poems by poem length and keyword.
Room 309
A room full of love and has always been.
You see all those songs that make us dance like we’re mad
Yeah, the ones that make us sweat when dancing to them.
That’s in the past, we’re no longer listen to those.
Lately we sway our waists along with our feet
Lately we’re listening to the songs giving new love vibes
If you know Zara Larsson’s song “I can’t fall in love without you”
We’re now listen to praise songs and pray
To show gratitude for the people God gives us
My roommate has now become a gone girl
You all should see how she smiles at her phone
For this love, she really did strive.
We’re no longer sleep; we sit still and sip wine
Listening to all her love stories with smiles in between,
she’s all happily in love like she had never been sad.
Her new lover is treating her like a gem,
I love that for her, unlike some foes.
She says he makes her complete,
even though they’re from different tribes.
After being hurt, this is her breakthrough.
His name begins with the letter after A.
With him by her side, there’s no need to cause a fuss,
because he promised her, he’ll stay and won’t whirl.
When she’s busy with her phone, I feel like I am alone,
though she’s there but drowning in the emotions of love.
The tweet on the pipe called the muster fall-in
The cadets all fell in with nary a din
For now they’d be grouped for “Hands to Cleanship”
To dress up the ship afore the Old Man's pip-pip
Well-trained, the cadets set to their work
The Bo ‘suns and POGIs made sure they didn’t shirk.
The awnings were tautened with the Shark's Mouth agape
The ropes in the grommets brought all into shape
The hydrants and fittings were brassoed and shined
The scuppers were cleaned where muck was confined
Running rigging was secured with belaying pins
All loose gear were neatly stacked in their bins
Hawsers and towropes were carefully coiled
Wire ropes ‘spiked, unkinked and oiled.
The decks were all cleaned with the broom and the brush
Fenders and pontoons secured so sides wouldn’t crush
With hammers the cable was chipped off of rust
The shackles were oiled after cleaning the dust.
The bitters on the bits were tethered on tight
With the bitter ends belayed and tucked out of sight.
The QD was holystoned with water and sand
(All set for the do with the Naval Band)
The Old Lady was painted in her customary gray
Her waists all shaped up for the rest of the day
The guns were all covered for the incoming squall
Even before the “cover guns” call
The Inglefields were mustered, the pennants and flags
Strung for’ard to stern without any sags
And thus was the ship all dressed to the tee
As shipshape and dandy as she rightly ought to be.
Their tasks all done, the cadets did secure
But the day was not done, there was more to endure!
I live in a family of big muscular women
Some are as dainty as a hippopotamus
Our family does not have a waist.
None of us have ever had a waist.
Waists are for other people’s families.
We have girdles, but we don’t like wearing them.
Oh you say, “Do they give you a waist?”
Hardly. They are designed to conceal our cookies, pies and cakes.
Because we are an avid eating family.
Sweets is our forte’ we specialize in sweets.
We had a distant cousin stay with us once.
She had never had a sweet or a girdle.
We gave her both.
She disliked the sweet,
And the girdle kept falling off of her.
Not big enough for a girdle.
Sad to the rest of us.
Not a single crumbling house will remain.
People on the pavements, hawkers, garbage,
Only then, a city painted on a scroll, ding-dong.
For the household fish to be cut,
a ash-boti is needed,
not a knife or a dagger.
This city, you see, was once,
in primordial times,
a forest, where deer and tigers
also lived. Keep thinking about it.
Catwalks on the ramp,
soft, gentle feet, within the dreams
of sitting beside the lotus pond,
rural Bengal is becoming far too genteel,
chairs, tables, curtains,
birthday cakes,
Bhadra-month Bhadu Puja, people
dancing and singing, swaying their waists
in courtyards,
a little rice, a little money.
I keep gazing at the pond,
the afternoon pond.
I am an old-fashioned man.
Sparrows and mynas, walking in tiny steps,
squirrels racing past,
the inarticulate map of nature.
I don't know why I am so frightened,
I don't know why I am so delighted,
I don't know, the birthing room, the constellations,
I am thinking about the price of everyday things,
thinking about an ordinary life,
thinking about an ordinary world.
Just now, I had a cup of tea,
a cigarette
By Parizo Van Thulare
News papers are full of words
Magazines are showing blurred eyes
Tears are a full house
Yet they stay hoping they could be loved
Their scars ohh lord
Those screams dear god
Abo'mboghoto
they are hurting
Abo'Mamabethu
they weeping
They need you Baba wase mazulwini
To deliver them from abantu' bazontini
Baya hlukumezeka kodwa they are afraid to say
Baya safara kodwa they choose to stay!
These beasts told them not or they will be slayed
Can somebody make this cruel men pay ?
Please I'm begging
If I had super powers
I would myself
If i had those of superman
I would fight this war myself
When usis'wam is being raped by umalume
Where are family values ??
Who will protect me when thieves evade ?
Whose shoulder will I lean on when trouble make a parade ?
Ugogo is being punished by my brother
For not sharing her grant of Sassa
Whom will I tell when I'm being bullied at school ??
God ! What should we do?
Umama is fighting for her life at hospital
Just coz she said "No ' when this stranger tried to grab her hand
Her face is now covered with tears
Her eyes are about to sear
Umakhelwane can't even walk
Coz she was beating when trying to talk
With scars like flowers around their waists
They cant't fight ,these men are beasts
What's wrong with you modern men
Why are you being so cruel ??
That is not noble ,but scumbish
That is so horrible and cowardish
Switch your ways gentlemen
Lead the way and let's fight those who can't
This is not ours alone
You have still families ,please atone
Boohoo is bidding for Boo-Boo
But Yogi’s not seeking a deal,
He’s scanning the park for a picnic
Looking forward to his evening meal.
Warner Brothers deny their involvement
So investors are kept in the dark,
But rumours are spreading ’round Bedrock
And the restrooms of Jellystone Park.
Boohoo is bidding for Boo-Boo,
It’s becoming a sought-after brand;
For Yogi it’s deeply upsetting
And he’s drawing a line in the sand.
This fetish for gobbling-up trademarks
Is addictive - a turbulent torrent,
So the trustees of Hanna-Barbera
Have rescinded Mister Ranger’s warrant.
Boohoo is loving the limelight,
Printing posters to boast of expansion.
Directors are driving round Dorset
Seeking out an available mansion.
Animated heroes fall silent,
Suppressing their deep-seated rage,
They’ve vowed to stop buying new costumes,
Thought bubbles stay blank on the page.
Snagglepuss is sacking his agent
Whose alibi soon fell to pieces,
Wacky Races have cancelled two meetings
Though Mister Jinks is still chasing meeces.
Huckleberry Hound is blue in the face,
So upset that he’s leaving his kennel tea.
Boohoo’s directors have not thought this through,
Analysts think they’ll soon pay a penalty.
Now Matalan, Primark and Peacocks
Are struggling hard to pay rates,
They see this young upstart named Boohoo
Just sealing competitors’ fates.
The Jetsons are locked in a hangar
Refusing to talk to the press,
While Cindy is comforting Yogi
Because bears aren’t accustomed to stress.
Just how many trademarks are needed
To cater for everyone’s tastes?
With so many trend-setters in lockdown
Periodically measuring waists.
The Jellystone team is downhearted
When they note that admissions are down,
With Boohoo now trashing their legacy
It’s the first time they’ve seen Muttley frown!
Yes, Boohoo is bidding for Boo-Boo,
It’s becoming a sought-after brand;
For Yogi it’s deeply upsetting
And the prospects for fashion seem bland.
Under the moonlight, the voices chant.
Young voices, and nearby, the old men rant
Over kegs of fresh palm wine and kola nuts
Spitting out proverbs and some, with coconuts.
The locust chirps purifies the atmosphere
Mingling with the scent of fresh brewed corn beer
For which my pals and I salivate while skipping
On the "Tabala" conscious, there was none for tasting.
The Village "ngong" beats it's music,
As the maidens shake their waists and tunic
Exciting the lads who gaped in ecstasy
Rubbing their hands in frenzy
Grandpa, in solemnity poured libation,
With proverbs, rumbled out incantation
While creating a link with our ancestors
Who sat side by side with our predecessors.
As the Moon weaned, we scampered homeward.
Accompanied by drums beating skyward,
Jostling lads, professing feelings with gifts of groundnuts
Many of them shy and without guts.
A score later,
With bowed head under the moon I sit.
The yard void of kids with just a seat,
Reminiscing the good all days
Now so altered in many ways.
The "ngong" shed lay besieged by dust
The drums reside in frost,
And while from afar, Don Moen does chant,
I realised our kids no longer play "tabala" and rant.
Such longing for the past brought into me, fear
while down, I let go a tear.
© Temajung Michael T.
When you watch how astonishingly the world moves on
From the fall of one iroko to the other,
How, one minute, eyes fill up
Like an overflowing river,
Then the next, mouths that stood agape,
As if to swallow death for swallowing their hero,
Drown in strong liquor,
Does it remind you of the vainness of striving?
When you look at him there in the box,
Still, in coats he cannot feel,
Nostrils an invitation to flies,
Do you see the essence of this hustling?
That a man who was made without permission to be made,
Who came into this world out of the merriment of two genitals,
Spent his breath chasing emptiness?
If the purpose of living is to die, // why celebrate the birthing of a death?
My mother roasts the plantains and dips each finger in oil.
I watch her joy as she passes it round, the celebration of a newborn,
Ya Ya Nkem eh, Ya Ya Nkem!
Ya Ya Nkem eh, Ya Ya Nkem!
Waists twirl through the compound,
An orchestra of loud voices.
The old man steps in, his kettle,
Carrying more prayers than wine,
“You shall wipe our tears and lead us well,
Cross the oceans we could never dare to;
Lord, hear us!”
Last week, Awung and Alem were lowered,
And in a day or a week,
A dirge will outdo these songs of delight,
For a new grave is born!
Ghosts do sing too—
only their mouths
open too wide,
as if no commissure binds them,
like gates unlatched by silence.
They sing at the wake of each night,
while dreaming birds forget the sky;
when moonlight burns its brightest,
and the awoken owls can only howl.
Though they sing in graves of clay,
their melodies rise beyond the day;
they are melodious on heaven’s rim,
then blend with silence when the wind rolls on wheels.
Their songs are celestial fire—
angels their ecclesiastics, their choirmasters.
The notes are sonorous,
yet only danced to by
the flapping of their wings—
not by wriggling waists
nor kicking limbs;
for their legs no longer walk but float,
and motion keeps no memory—
a breath dissolved in thin air.
Their song—once mortal, once mundane—
now a chorus divinely condoned;
for they were composed
and filled with praise for the King of Glory—
the One who holds the crown alone,
who shares His glory with no one.
FANTASY WORLD
Awakened by the sound of the bell,
Feeling debilitated from the night's odyssey,
I looked out of the window ,
the sun adorned my little chamber.
Walking along the hallway,
Thinking of the day's duty,
Descending the building with my tools,
A lad already got the horses ready,
We mounted on it and vanished swiftly.
In the field,
After much heat and barley packed,
I sat down to regain strength,
The lad took the horses to feed,
Cool breeze came,
And I found myself in another world.
''Morning my Lord'', said the court chancellor,
I descended from my bed chamber,
And was gently attended to, Clothed in royal apparel,
I walked towards the party hall.
Sounds of drums,
Tunes of musical instruments filled the air,
Waists swaying to the tune of music,
I extended my hand to a pretty princess for a dance,
Leading her to the dance floor,
The lad tapped me and I was back in reality{arrrgghh} We rode our horses back home, I was smiling all the way home.
ANYABOLU IFEANYI GENTLE
A.D 2018, APR 2