Long Week Poems
Long Week Poems. Below are the most popular long Week by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Week poems by poem length and keyword.
The waiter asked: “Do you want that here or to go.
I replied: “if I eat it here don’t I get to take it with me?”
((oldies but goodies}}
“Waiter! Waiter! There’s a fly in my soup!”
“Well keep it quiet or everybody’s gonna want one.”
“Waiter, what’s this fly doing in my soup?”
“Hmm, I’m no expert but it appears to be the backstroke.”
“And how did you find your steak sir?”
“I looked under the mashed potatoes!”
The waiter placed the bowl of soup on the table.
“you have your thumb in my soup” chided the diner”
“Sorry Sir, I sprained it last week and the Dr. told me to keep it warm.”
The irate diner replied: “Why don’t you stick it up your a..?”
The waiters retort: “I do sir, when I’m in the kitchen.”
Sign in a diner.
APPLE PIE LIKE GRANDMA USED TO MAKE - $2.50
APPLE PIE LIKE YOU THINK GRANDMA USED TO MAKE - $5.00
And that old favorite outside the roadside rest area….
EAT HERE AND GET GAS
John G. Lawless
11/4/2022
When are you going to fix the garage door?
He had just gotten home from an eight-hour-day.
Was barely in the house when she began harping.
Can I please put on my comfy clothes first? He wondered.
She followed him into the bedroom.
You said you would fix it this week, she said.
He shut his eyes, trying to shut her words out.
She yipped like a dog when she was on a little roll like this.
Can I get a little snack first? He asked.
You are going to sit in that recliner all evening, she accused.
He said “I might,” and sat down with his remote.
Her mouth was yapping like a swim pool filter cover.
She was a professional hound. She could never have silence.
He had no idea of this when he fell in love with her.
Could I have just a bit of silence tonight? He asked her.
They ate their supper, and his eyes began to close.
What about the garage door? She asked him.
I don’t have the right parts, he said. It was a quick lie.
Then what is stopping you from changing the filters in the furnace?
He thought back to their dating days. She was never like this back then.
If she had been, would he have fallen in love? He did not know.
Or you could clean off that work bench of yours, she suggested.
Why did she want him to constantly do something?
He thought of the couch out in his garage, and he made his escape.
Theres only so many words in a day,
To tell you how I feel,
I wish I could capture the sand of time -
for precious seconds to steal,
I’m facing my own morality,
I know my death is near,
Its a feeling that I can’t escape,
Contrived of grief and fear,
All the things I should of done,
The amount of time I’ve wasted,
So many years of hiding myself,
When I should of been running naked,
My stubborn tongue and foolish mind,
Have cost me so so dear,
All those wasted moments,
Seem so petty - lying here,
Take my eyes,
Forgo my cries and feel my fear of dying,
For it asks of me the same as you,
- How hard have we been trying ?
I don’t want to die,
I’m scared of goodbye,
I’ve no time to find my peace,
I need so much more time than this,
To forgive myself at least,
I never realised how lucky I was,
I’ve abused the time I was given,
The thoughts I ignored that scream at me now,
If only I had listened,
They say I’ve days,
Maybe a week,
My body’s lost it’s fight,
I’m scared to go to sleep in case it is my last goodnight,
Write a letter,
Leave a note,
That’s what somebody said,
Immortalise my final words,
To be cherished when I’m dead,
But that’s the point that no one sees,
I don’t care what I leave behind,
Life carries on regardless of the pain that people find,
I need to stay another day,
Then another day there after,
I need to feel more love and hate,
More cries and tears off laughter
I have to see the sunset and take a final dip in the sea,
See the truth of all I’ll be missing,
Please just let me be,
How can I say goodbye to you all,
When I’m so not ready to leave,
Clinging to hope as I’m laying here,
Wishing for my reprieve,
If there is a god or mighty power,
I beg of you exemption,
I’ll change my ways forever more,
If you grant me my redemption.
Please don’t anybody asked me to decide anything. I don’t know
It had been one hell of a week.
The white snow doesn’t know if to fall; or the rain doesn’t know if it should pour
It takes sudden depression to make us see what life is
Life without a path is like flies on the cow ass,
As it uses its tail as a whip and swished the flies away
It a daily struggle but somehow we manage to move forward
It takes a man or woman who is down on they luck to wake up and face reality
A wise man will listen, hear, receive, and is always learning: because he uses every tactic
Known in the book
He laid back and makes the poor man do all the work
While he uses he brain and secures his profits…
Please don’t ask me to decide anything. I don’t know
Even a rat hate to be called by another name; for goodness sake
A rat is a rat. Why give it a different name.
The best of the best stool pigeon know how to keep its beak close
So please don’t asked me anything.. I don’t know
I needed some stability
My inner mentality
was cracking inch by inch
My nerves were starting to pinch
Unraveled and full of doubt
Fearful not to work it out
My past kept catching up with me
Scarring my heart painfully
With no relief anywhere
Wishing for someone to care
About my life--what I've been through
Lonely, hurting and so blue
Slowly realizing I could end--
Up with a soul that will not mend
The insanity I have been living
Kept me hard and numb from giving
MY love to someone special
Because of the times I fell
For lying hearts too many times
Learning of their cheating crimes
Piece by piece and week by week
My emotions slowly leaked
Into a puddle on the floor
My wings clipped and could not soar
With an angel of pure love
That wont lead to push and shove
On a heart becoming brittle
Protecting the only little
Heart corner that's still alive
Knowing it can only thrive
If a new and bright tomorrow
Overshadows all the sorrow
Bringing hope back to a shell
That has only known pure hell
The sprout of momentary illusion,
the voyage of a derelict dream in place of a lie,
the lure of April, the deceit of May concertized in December,
in wintry snow, mocked,
miscarriages of a well worn organ,
the grin of February,
suspended in September,
the burden of unconquered Lust,
the armies of censorial secret "bedders",
begging for the abandoned rottenness on my path,
obsequious frenzy of the hasty oath at Ikoyi,
the stealthily lure of a defiled bed before the oath,
the desperation of "a wanna be" by crook,
hurried by the mascara coated looks of a postponed "dowried hariotery,"
A bedfellow from the red zone,
an unrepentant Gomer,
The armies of bias exes overwhelmed the gaze with suspicions,
compelling through diurnal and surreptitious escapades in dark corners,
allured by unfinished lust,
to the city centre for a quickie,
And myriads of men hides in ambuscade save one,
with threats of kill for suspending their “off home” secret lush
The public mistress unfit for their homes, Yet suited for their Lust by turns
she warmed our beds they say'
purloined for your Fall of a few days,
The bawd roamed unrestrained,
'Don't talk to me' she says.
Unbridled concupiscence her forte,
forty plus years in the trade,
well versed in the art
The sneaky nights,
the secret calls,
the Stygian services,
and countless gift of libidinous frivolities.
Yet their victim must remain mute,
as truly the drama unfolded ,
all appeal rebuffed by arrogance,
as they taunt with permissive perverse Laws
convinced on the first day.
Converse for four weeks,
conscripted in one week
“conbedded” on arrival in same day,
Correction of a fool,
concluded at the Court.
Then in retrospect, Delilah revived.
What feeds a writer’s art?
Why feed a writer’s art
when the appetite’s clearly insatiable?
I think in stiches, rows, paragraphs and stanzas,
and I’m not one to undershoot a thesis.
I can’t seem to just write a paper for school,
I have to craft some kind of narrative
- it’s practically involuntary.
Last week was ‘All Saints’ school break. It was a week in France that, like fall, shifted the temperature - cooling the pace, so Peter (my bf) and I could take a breath and metabolize the changes of the past few weeks, where we both moved to Paris - changing schools and jobs. We’ve had big feelings - it was a lot.
Peter’s content with my tireless run on the hamster wheel of education - he has a PhD, so he understands the grind and my often prickly, acerbic and deeply abstracted school-day moods.
He’s on a steep learning curve himself, these days, living suddenly in an all-French world, where every sign and menu is semi-unreadable. We’re working on it - we’ll get there because his tutor gives excellent rewards for effort.
.
.
Songs for this:
Take On Me by Josh Whitehouse
Poor Boy - Nick Drake
Window - Still Woozy
.
.
*For instance , I’ll find myself trying to form a narrative, in response to a clinical case scenario, meant to demonstrate my diagnostic reasoning.
There's a price to be paid for everything.
Nothing in life is free;
So be sure of a thing and the price to be paid,
Is it worth it? If not let it be.
We pay a price for whatever we do;
Where we go, who we see, what we say.
Even the way we wear our hair,
Is discussed and recounted next day.
Nobody worries 'bout right or wrong,
Or gives credit for circumstance.
Nobody cares if you're misunderstood,
Or about your innocence.
People watch people, for sure this is true.
It's self entertainment they seek;
So they watch other people in hopes they will find,
Some excitement to perk up their week;
So be careful about the places you go,
Speak clearly whenever you speak.
Be careful about the way you dress.
Keep your manner mild and meek.
People bend words and make up tales,
About who they saw when and where.
They care little about who they hurt with their words,
As long as they get to share.
They seek entertainment, popularity,
They seek to be amused.
They don't think about their target,
Or how they're being used;
But nothing in life is free, My Dear,
And they'll pay the piper too.
They'll pay for their words and they'll pay for their deeds,
Jusy like me and you.
Lights, camera...take 2!
We're old enough to remember
Trump and Kim drawing each other's blood
like thirsty vampires barely a moon ago.
Trump was a "Dotard" to Kim...
and Kim "Rocket Man" to Trump.
Soon we were furiously scratching
our heads wondering how on Earth
they turned pen pals so quickly, exchanging
missives written with red crayons
They shook hands and broke bread
and made phony deals on the world stage;
a spectacle we all witnessed. And it sparked
a mutual admiration society.
So what happened? Do both men even know?
What became of all their "beautiful letters"?
Sure looks like they've swapped crayons
for poison pens, folks! Oh, snap...
Now they're also throwing poison darts
like warring ninjas, too! Damn...
it was all love just a week ago!
Now Trump is back to calling Kim "Rocket Man"
and Kim back to calling Trump a "Dotard"
A circle completes itself!
Date written: 12/07/2019
Once upon a time
There lived a poor woman
With two children
She struggled every day
To provide for them all
Even a place to stay
The clothes they wore
Generally came from a thrift store
Two or three thread bare and stringy
A few with stains through and through
Feeding everyone took a lot of stew
Became a challenge the poor woman could do without
Boiling coffee in a pot
Filtering with a paper towel
Doing the same grounds again
Gave her two pots to see her through
Cowboy coffee she called it
The children remember to this day
Bring a tea bag
Just one
Make three cups from just one
Magic made for everyone
The cream, salt, pepper, sugar was good
She helped herself to the free supplies
Always taking a few more then she should
In a napkin
For their own good
Mixing powdered milk into gallon jugs
Helped stretch her dairy from month to month
Shopping in trash bins at vegetable stands
Everything just needed a pare here and there
Digging for clams and oysters
Added to spaghetti sauce
Her kids never knew
The occasional fish either caught or bartered
Added to the larder
Making a chicken last a whole week
Fed the family of three with something good to eat
The library taught them with a few books
What was edible in the yard
Thank God they looked
Checking the garbage for free furnishings people gave away
Always looking for something she might need
A lamp
Or table
Some place to read
Hair styles became convenient
With ponytails
For a few years
Entertainment was sparse
Free movies at the library
A swim in the sea
Camping anywhere that was free
Cooking over open fires
With what she had around
All of this gave substance to their lives
Creative poverty
So they could survive