Long Wednesdays Poems
Long Wednesdays Poems. Below are the most popular long Wednesdays by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Wednesdays poems by poem length and keyword.
Want a job that includes oodles of math?
No math, despise math. Math Phooey!
No public speaking, I'd rather not be noticed.
Or running for office, wanting lots of votes?
Monday through Fridays only please.
Or I'll work nights only so I can sleep late
Working only on Wednesdays is usually not an option.
Work alone?
Work with a partner?
Work as a team?
She'll be the boss, he'll woo the boss, we'll hide from the boss.
Make my own hours, please.
Or I'll work any schedule you say as long as I can have coffee.
I want a frantic, frenzied, busy day because it goes faster.
A slower pace for me, if you please. I want to nap if the truth be told.
Work with computers?
No computer work!
Minimal computer work
Figuring out your dream job is clearly a difficult assignment.
My mother went door to door on a daily basis
Collecting money for Mr. Sim’s wife’s funeral flowers
or for a present for Tad and Betty’s newborn baby girl
When I am older, I hope I do this too
My mother hung her clothes out on a line
Where they turned stiff as a desktop in the wind
The other neighbor ladies ran out at the same time to talk to her
When I am older, I hope I do this too
My mother baked pies, cakes and cookies in the morning.
In summer she gardened– snapping peas and shucking corn.
In winter she brought out the watermelon jelly she made in summer
When I am older, I hope I do this too
My mother gave her time to the church on Wednesdays and Sundays
She was one of four ladies in charge of all of the funeral dinners
Because no one else would step up and do it like they would
When I am older, I hope I do this too
My mother was the quintessential volunteer.
She was our room mother every year at school.
Because if I did not volunteer her, my identical twin would.
I hope I will volunteer time and talents like my mother always did.
This silent heave grows much too thin
when this dreary night is ripped by transient stars
and black fire. I bleed, bleed and rake
like if I never belonged to a world
now made from recycled
apathy---piles of rusty acid in the rain---
where the god-forsaken screen
of days are holed by mangled rays .
Should I run on byways where fetal
trees never lived, clipped by axes
and formed as decorated beds?
Even daisies grow under the tyranny
of Ash Wednesdays riddled with Clorox
from urban laundry. I tell myself,
the air I breathe is soot and mud: my skin
grilled in toxic regret: damn, how often
can moments linger in July's charms
when I'm deprived of the thrill
of summer's lust in an age of ice?
My eyes grow sullen, lonely...
I stand outside waiting for some kind
of fresh wind to taste my frozen tears.
Desolate desolate me.
I bow to this final amen of glory be ,
as the linings of my soul defrocks itself
to feel the naked peel of virgin stars.
Skat A's Slam The Slam Contest
by nette onclaud
Alastair Monday
You were profoundly anti-social
Just a board hoping
investing in autumns hopes
While wearing winters coat
Developing dreams far away
Only he believes in prayer
You grew up
In a world full of hopelessness
Who you trying to impress
In each and every sin
Is where you continue in
Where do I begin
Tuesday heartbreak
Wednesdays heartache
Thursday morning debacle
Friday frozen Texas chili
Saturday pastel raisin cane
Sunday honey suckle rose
Alastair Monday
Born on Sunday
On the 4th of July
Gonna cry
Born in a kitchen at a mission
Who you trying to impress
In a world full of hopelessness
written words by James Edward Lee Sr.
arranged music by Jonathan Echtinaw
Diane’s dog Charlie is her baby; more than her son ever was.
He likes me better than Stewart did too, she tells me.
Charlie’s therapy appointments are on Monday.
On Tuesdays he has his nails groomed or his teeth flossed.
Wednesdays are open for luncheon engagements with other pups.
He gives me a break on Thursdays, Diane tells us. It’s my free day.
Friday’s are for Charlie’s aerobic and line dancing.
Saturdays he has yoga.
What’s Charlie’s Sunday schedule? I ask her.
Diane looks surprised that I asked.
We go to church in color-coordinated clothing.
I take him in a little matching case.
I should have guessed.
November and April
when the trees are first bare and last naked
have become my favorite months. All the food eaten
except last rose hips and earliest leeks.
Leaves innocent
as dying men and infants.
Study one plant or animal each morning
before writing anything. All reading -
poetry or prose, truth or fiction -
classified the same, the distinguishing
characteristics being helpful or boring,
beautifully or indifferently written. Then
practice trumpet worried not at all about
my sound or perfection. Afternoon, my sons
return from school, math and (again)
reading, piano. Wednesdays we walk
observe plants and animals and record
our observations to identify and classify
later in the week. Nothing else special
need be done but stay alive.
I lean into us like
Can I serenade you with this poem
Let the words massage your tension
Your skin is as soft as the pink in the sunset
My lips feel like the sunrise to your closed eyes
Lean back so our kiss can be the friction between end and beginning
Right where the sun smiles so hard the moon says goodnight
This poem begins
I lean in and forget what day it is
Your kiss argues back
All you need to focus on is me
Yes those lips taste like coffee
Now I don't mind the stains
Wait just a little longer before you let go
Wait I still don't know
What day it is
That's when I noticed
Her lips hugged a little harder on Wednesdays
Just enough to get me over the hump
Because after a long day
I just want to lean into you
Now the brush of her touch is jogging my memory
Got me sprinting to Thursday
Where your sugar is the only cane I'll ever need when we're old
To be honest ain’t nothing more sexy than seeing
Those greys coming in
Friday is a French that reminds me how
Your lips feel like the weekend even on weekdays
Got me weak in places and that's the least I'll say
Fridays your besos imprint the same as the 1st date
It was just a peck on the cheek but felt like an AED
Shocked my abc all the way to Z
Shocked how your lips and arms hug the same
The myth tells us
Lightning doesn't strike the same place twice
But every time we kiss my heart thunders
If Lightning doesn't strike the same place twice
How are will still kissing I wonder
If forever sees us and gets jealous
I love to wander in the foot prints of your lips
p.s. I'm never lost when I wander with you…
I'm not the average stupid mundane broad that's so stupid that I cannot see
That you get a rise and sick pleasure, when you intentionally hurt me
A sociopathic, psychotic, and paranoid-schizophrenic narcissist is all you'll be
Your soul only operates when you're syphoning life forces of the weakened prey
Every day you wear a mask 'cause you aren't willing to learn the righteous way
You're stuck in your past time-warp of dilapidated mistakes you can't cut loose
You have no knowledge of common sense or rationalization truths
You'd rather be stubborn and stay in your low-frequency comfort-zone
Instead of giving a real loyal woman after 7.5 years her own rightful home
Your words say you want me to be treated as a queen ruling an invisible castle
'Cause every time we try and work as a team - it becomes an udder disaster
You made all these promises, said all these sweet-nothings - turned lies
But still over and over you force me over and over again - thousands of tries
You're only "in love" with me on Mondays, Wednesdays, and maybe Fridays
Yet, Tuesdays, Thursdays, Saturdays, and Sundays you hate me - not my days
I'm your little puppet-stringed elf, and your pu$$y-slave you can up and use
Still you kept this "acting like you were madly in love with me" just a rouse
There will be times
A brilliant sunset
when I will
A microphone
see something,
The scent of lilacs
smell something,
A roaring fireplace
hear something,
A starry sky
taste something,
A full moon
touch something...
A big snowstorm
reminders of you...
A walk at the seashore
a memory
Americana music
of something
Boho
we talked about,
Bm chords
a memory
Acoustic guitar and female voice
of something
Nashville
we did,
Jeans and boots
a memory
Red pants, red lights, red coats
of something
A certain day in April
we dreamed about,
The Neighborly
of something
Sarah and Sara
we shared,
Brooke and John
of something
Anne and Gilbert
we read,
Thomas and Elsa
of something
Coffee
pretty,
Cheese
something
Combos
special,
Robert Frost
something
Klimt and Rodin
funny,
Knitting needles
something
Clothes stores
solely Bluebird and Troubadour
Craft markets
And if I add up all of the
Wind chimes
somethings
Lancaster
I will realize that their sum thing equals
Shoofly pie
everything
Bridges
And when I dream about you
Bluebirds
I won't rush to the kiss
Airplane rides
because some dreams
Paris, France
are just too perfect to rush
Lake Annecy
And as I walk the road of my life
Reading books
I will walk towards the hope of
Doing Crosswords
someday,
Wordle and Connections
the day when I can finally,
Sundays, Wednesdays, Easter, Thanksgiving, Christmas
once and for all time,
Bookmarks
come home to you
I'd go to church
Every Sunday
Often find myself there
On Tuesdays, Wednesdays and Friday
oh! what am I but just a glorified Church goer;
A modified, glorified, pew sitter;
Oh! God, help me, Lord;
I don't wanna be just a pew sitter;
Praising you inside this church building;
whom am I but just a forgiven sinner;
I should be more than a pew sitter;
When I leave a church I should be a soul winner;
Not just a holy than tho! Christian just chilling;
oh! what am I but just a glorified Church goer;
A modified, glorified, pew sitter;
Oh! God, help me, Lord;
I don't wanna be just a pew sitter;
I need to be the church, be uplifting;
Be a witness, be forgiving;
Feed the poor, help the elderly;
Be the eyes, hands and feet of God;
Be all I can be;
oh! what am I but just a glorified Church goer;
A modified, glorified, pew sitter;
Oh! God, help me, Lord;
I don't wanna be just a pew sitter;
written words by James Edward Lee Sr.