Long Wifely Poems
Long Wifely Poems. Below are the most popular long Wifely by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Wifely poems by poem length and keyword.
Before They Came
Sitting here with my daughter between my knees, I braid her hair; One by one I place the lucky cowrie shells in her hair. I hear the call and response in my village. The roll was being called. This gathering was different, “the drums tell us we must gather to meet”, as we will have guest to greet.
" Habari-Ghani” -'' What's the news'' The news is, strangers are here, to look for wives, they want to take us away./
The news is, our ways are not their ways, Father says we girls must go away to have a better life. /
“Your husband died and no one in this village will marry you”:
My father said;You have also have a daughter, you must think about.
Father spoke again: I have many other daughters, and I cannot take care of you for life.!/
As I arrived in this new land, My Husband, was not really my husband:
He treated me as a maid with wifely duties. I took care of my daughter
Until she was age fourteen – Then he sent her away.
I cried myself to sleep at nights and dreamed of Africa my home and how things were before
“THEY CAME”./
Things were fine, right before they came; We had our own way of solving problems.
Sometimes, I would get lost in thoughts that felt so real. It seemed as
I could smell the wood burning on the open fire, I longed to dance in moonlight with my sisters,
I wanted to eat again from coconut Shells; I wanted things to be the same as the were;/
Before they came.!
I could smell simmering pots of love cooking.
The pungent scent of burning wood and coconut shells....
I remember bathing in rivers./
The Joy of weaving our love in baskets.
It has been Five-hundred years, and I am still here in this new land, holding onto memories of sun filled oceans./
Trying hard to hold onto the times of happiness...Before they came. These things are deeply embedded “Mamas Laughter”,” grandmother’s wisdom” by blood, these things came with me on this journey./
For dear life I am holding on to our ways, unashamed, I long for my African life, my culture, and my happiness....” Before they came”!
A person in the public eye,
When subject of a joke,
Has every right to mope or cry
About the one who spoke.
Yet we’re still a democracy,
Though maybe not much longer,
And things we thought we’d never see
Are here and getting stronger.
The freedom that we have to speak
And criticize or sneer at
Applies to even those so weak
Their enemies they JEER AT!
The ALL-CAPS ranting’s not enough –
The claws must dig in deeper
To prove to all that he’s so tough
Revenge will cut much steeper.
And so the toadies and the Court
Will seek some retribution
As ABC might cut things short
In hopes of absolution.
It’s bad enough when words are hurled
From One-I Will-Not-Mention
But now, with wifely wrath unfurled,
There’s double the attention.
All I could see from where I stood
Was ocean far and wide no woods
Looking other way__one lighthouse
Solid tall that reached to sky and __rouse
All on those boats, barges at sea
Warning sailors dangers that be
To the South side houses stood erect
On stilts for protection from wreck
Or destruction from hurricane's
Wind, water, surges__ heavy rains
Over the horizon unseen
Was the country which I dream
A land of isles and rocky cliffs
Where I could go sail on a ship
Within a bay and river wide
Ebb and flow with the daily tide
Leave all cares and trouble behind
Alone in world totally mine
Trapped not then to wifely duties
Free to roam on the shore__beauty
Picture on the Parlor Wall 9-27-24
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Sampler on the Parlor Wall
Shadows born from dawdling light
Stretch across a firelit room set with porcelain cups,
From tea parties long ago and faraway,
With an invitation to sample sweets and savories
Like the sampler on the parlor wall.
Beneath neat rows of alphabets stories gather,
Verses stitched with silk and dreams
And numbers that taught a woman’s craft –
A child’s wishes fly with birds and lady bugs –
Wishes to convince a suitor at the door of her wifely worth
In tidy stitches foreshadowing an orderly life.
A young lady-girl in pantaloons and blue sashes
Weaves circles of symphonic dots in French wheels
While lazy daisy chains meander on her linen fields -
Magic flares in her zigzag lines, her wishes on wooly stars.
No signature remains from her little hand -
Her hearth, her home, her heart –
Only a legacy of butterflies and roses sampled on a parlor wall
And a tiny scarlet dot of imperfection like a signature remains
Embroidered into a sampler embracing each dawn and dusk.
Nothing boot toe till rot and duff feet...
concerning yours truly
poor righteous leftist sole.
Great way to begin the new year
mine little feet about size nine wear
sneakers acquired At Ian's Boots
not for profit business
origin of said enterprise
brings more'n one tear.
Attempting nightly ritual
nsync with sole and
instep of beat
January second 11:33
two thousand twenty two
footwear equipped with
custom made cleat
proudly standing tall
(think) as an elite
able, eager, and ready
to sprint skyhigh fleet
ting into netherlands
(towering well over
other wiry contestants,
hence exception to
maximum height waved
outrageous illegitimate forfeit
chore blithely Atlas shrugged off),
the fountain head
whereby marathoner Olympian
amidst godly pantheon did greet,
then melted starter blocks
competitors crouched tigerlike
deftly gunning generating barreling heat
fast as greased lightning
Achilles catapulted courtesy blur,
zee mister (oak kay)
tree - man, i.e. helpmeet,
he roundly squared off
accompanied by his wifely entreat
for sakes Pete.
Thus situated, positioned, and finagled
husbandry duty obliging the misses,
no matter she kick started
(think thrashing outsize toddler)
childish task deemed
markedly cockameemie design,
subsequently these little feet (mine)
stood stolid upon bedroom floor
she did man date me,
supplicating, necessitating,
imploring, and decrying divine
intercession, cuz thee mademoiselle
did authoritatively assign,
thee mister getting mine
handy dandy grip upon her supine
corpulent physique
outstretched leaden legs
awaiting (the missus)
salute perfect sign
to commence powerfully
prying and pulling
first straight then nine
tee degrees practically pulling
footloose and eventually
detaching fancy free
thunder thighs, what strong
amazing anatomical design
nearly defying might
of super rich a$$ a nein
bird brainer heron
an ill eagle cro-magnon scheme
to untie clodhoppers
snug as a bug in a rug,
whence laces unknotted free
and clear whirled,
wide webbed formerly tangled skein
fo shoe more intolerable
than swallowing quinine.
Internal Monologue
I guess I am truly getting old.
The time has come to let the old me go.
My face of youth no longer suits.
No longer feeling bullet proof;
More like feeling twenty-percent proof,
When I wake up, still in pieces.
I am sure I went to sleep hours ago.
I’m sure I did, I swear it.
My body does not feel rested.
It’s begging out to,
Get your head tested,
If you think I am moving right now pal!
You’re joking!
I ain’t moving unless there is an earthquake
And even then I will only be shaking,
But I won’t get up yet…
I love this bed.
I am setting up camp,
Understand?
She has not got up yet.
Don’t leave her all alone.
Turn off your phone and hold the water flow.
Just go back to sleep.
But I really gotta pee!
No you don’t, just hold it in.
It’s far too warm for that cold room with the sink.
So lay here with her until she wakes up
And when she does, ask her for a back rub.
I don’t know what you did last night,
But it feels like I slept on a log.
Ignore the dog that is scratching in the kitchen down stairs.
He can hold it in too, unless he hears you, walking down the stairs.
Look. She will wake up in twenty three minutes,
So give me a rest before the invasion of the kids,
The barking dog and the wifely orders;
The chores, the D.I.Y., the school run
And planting those borders!
The shopping’s today and outside looks so grey
And so very, very cold.
I’m feeling too old; my body aches.
I think in bed you should remain,
Just for a little while longer.
You know you ain’t getting any younger.
So close your eyes, just rest them a while,
So when she does wake you up,
With a word of love,
Or a shout,
Or a shove,
You can greet her with a kiss and a friendly smile
And don’t forget to say:
“Morning love.”
(C)2018 Aa Harvey. All Rights Reserved.
Form:
(alternately titled: tongue in cheek humor
cuz the following hyperbole
from this pencil necked baby boomer
without intent to badmouth,
nor start unfounded rumor,
who chalks, i.e. attributes gobbledygook
to funny bone tumor).
Impossible mission maneuvering around
soiled clothes pile
floor to ceiling humongous mound
terse reply hopefully adequately sound
to convincingly doth explain
absent poet buried alive underground,
perhaps never heard and/or found
till 1-800 GOT JUNK uncovered
emaciated (lovely bones)
formerly Matthew Scott Harris
his remnants discovered
visa vis mastercard bloodhound.
No need to fret
(while guitar gently weeps),
just talk to who barkeeps
works long late hours, he oversleeps
thus best track him down,
without uttering peeps
please find out if he knows
anybody reliably housekeeps
maybe lady luck will
thru think magical realism
deliver sophisticated robot
harkening within outer limits
from twilight zone
hookin get the job done
in one fell swoop sweeps.
Meanwhile yours truly
tries to remain upbeat
despite being royally tricked
upon pledging his troth
haint cool wedded bliss
heavily perspiring courtesy ultraheat
smellbound by malodorous laundry
necessitating heavy amount
of clorox to pretreat
which I rather drink,
(and thank president Trump)
for sakes Pete!
Though the misses upholds
voluntarily cooking as wifely role indeed
worth commendable attention,
I do concede
and doth adequately buzzfeed
her hubby lest he
wither away to lovely bones
(well past due date
late to avoid
above mentioned outcome,
his (mine) corporeal
being well nigh freed,
thus complaint regarding
spindleshanks solved no knead
to strain skinny ankle muscles
and maintain self promise
holy matrimony, cuz
aye know weed
never remain married forever
as initially agreed.
Fickle finger of fate
hath spoken thru smelly
potential Superfund site
perhaps... not amazing how heaping pile
of unwashed laundry can create
ecological hazard, that warrants B44
one bedroom apartment condemned
management understandably irate
to withhold security deposit
nearly four years at Highland Manor
now ready for model
domestic counterpart to debate
with her better angels where to relocate.
A commoner King usurps the crown
Marries a blueblood of royal renown
Drunk as can be, in an imperial mood
Orders the Queen to appear stark nude
Before his commoner friends, no less
She refuses, of course, precipitating a mess
The King has the Queen killed
Then sobers up and isn't too thrilled
At the loss of great beauty
For just doing his duty
To ensure that every man is king of his castle
Not subject to wifely disobedience or hassle
So, he holds a beauty contest, and the girl who won
Won't tell her real name, who she is, where she's from
'Til the day she tells the King that his right-hand man
Is plotting to kill her, her family and all Jews in all lands
Wicked Haman is hanged, and the Jews skirt disaster
The Holiday of Purim's today ~ May we never outlast her
According to Jewish tradition, the Coming of the
Messiah will cancel all Jewish festivals---except Purim.
July 25th, 1996 tied the Gordian knot,...
(I spent noose cents)
begot deux daughters, the major events
both since flew cuckoo's nest,
the eldest angry at papa for offense
sieve behavior fatherly bond
forever sundered permanent rents
unforgiving progeny vents
bile, explosive vitriol whence...
Aye yen for bachelorhood every
now and again doth mildly abate
after saying "I do...,"
when axed by justice of peace
nearly two dozen years wedded
bull hissing, rest assured
I will abbreviate
encapsulate, fulminate, narrate...
and forthrightly admit,
yours truly oft times
yearned to abdicate
spousal unbridled warfare and injustice
reason enough to abnegate
null and void husbandry role
ex post facto finding thyself
questioning pledging troth even
Frosty the snowman would abominate
to say "screw this -
marriage nut for me"
bolt in a huff boot (dang)
ne'er did absquatulate
altercations that adhere
to rule of physics
and tended to accelerate
as muzzled, neigh saying saddled
former groom did
lament and accentuate
his physical needs,
she did not accommodate,
cuz this solitary soul
(with good n plenti horse sense),
never did fully acculturate
with female species,
one whose blunt cold front
seemed to accumulate growing
gripe list bestowed courtesy this mate
tit for tat wrathful pitiless,
(not so cherry) feedback unmatched
within annotated coupled courtship of fools,
this scrivener with steely
iron maiden breastplate,
nonetheless did rack up and accumulate
battle scars hitting bullseye,
since donned with
corrective vision spectacles
hen pecking, needling termagant
untameable shrew did acerate
(worse fate than death -
validated by grim reaper)
avowed covenant thru torturous years
exponentially punishing innocent soul
(slightly biased) did acervate
popping one after
another over the counter acetylsalicylate,
no ampule adequate
to relieve permanent suffering,
thus lifetime electric shock treatment,
nsync quaffing prescription
kool aid battery acidulate
ineffective to activate
palliative, and restore
liberty (yeah) sense and sensibility
subsequently providing freedom
against further wifely scourges
whereby Doctor Phil Ander
refused to adjudicate,
perhaps understandable why I advocate
selfless mercy killing (euthanasia)
for this urbane country bumpkin.
The Assassin:
What steel makes death but a prick
How sharp the blade to not shimmer red
Upon my dagger thy life runneth quick
To mingle in the river of the dead
A tawdry life, a bitter'd wife
An scant a copper more
How could a woman like me
Ignore her plea
To be the death of you
And your whore
But nigh is the time to make sense of the rhyme
A woman’s wrath is no soft poet
I’ve cleaned my blade in the bed they’ve made
And will be gone before the guards know it
The Wife:
The deed is done and in the light of the sun
I am haunted by both their shadows
Remembering the glee when he first loved me
As we roll in blossomed meadows
As for her, I cannot hate anymore
For all she had was her beauty
No husband, no Man, no future plan
No sense of wifely duty
She was more alone than I had grown
And longed for a gentle man
To not be the slander of men of ill manner
And but a queen upon her throne
To be seen for her heart and not as town tart
And in my coolness if I was not so mean
Maybe their flame never kindle and start
Maybe I could have foreseen
But I sit at his grave and recall a time
Where we loved each other and life
Now I will never forget my crime
Of being a spiteful wife