Long Wing it Poems
Long Wing it Poems. Below are the most popular long Wing it by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Wing it poems by poem length and keyword.
Every day it seems a battle,
finds a way to leave you rattled,
the nonsense you see on TV,
lots of lies from the legacy,
traffic jams, can’t work from home,
boss demands, tell his where to go,
just goes on, the price we must pay,
comes a time you must get away!
I want to go off,
let this thing blow off,
the stress I’ll throw off,
I want to go off.
I want to go off,
let this thing blow off,
the stress I’ll throw off,
let this thing explode.
Find the time, bleed it off slowly,
clear my mind of the unholy,
make a plan, or maybe wing it,
find something that I can sink in.
Get a drink, maybe a woman,
take a trip, get up and go then,
some chaos, can be balancing,
feel alive, that’s what I’m wanting.
I want to go off,
let this thing blow off,
the stress I’ll throw off,
I want to go off.
I want to go off,
let this thing blow off,
the stress I’ll throw off,
let this thing explode.
Let this thing explode,
let this thing explode,
let this thing explode…
every man must unload.
Passion play
An old man’s Dream – Journey
Luck walks him from the hands of the Grim Reaper,
beyond the pearly gates of St. Peter,
across the desert sands,
into a carnival, the arms of a winged Angel’s, hands.
Two freaks on the stage, of the world’s side show
Within each, the other know.
A lost soul, trumpet silenced by very bad choices.
In his head – a con, a schemer – he hears inner voices.
Take this Beauty, wing it into survival, into a living.
Only himself, not to others, giving.
Another lost soul, in a glass cage, her wings clipped.
In a carnival side show, freaks, the audience is gipped.
He knows the price she will have to pay.
To save him and the game he will have to play.
Captivated by her ethereal beauty, love making evolves into love.
Beyond his greed for life, love’s conscience raises him above
the slim of his scheme, to do all he can to protect his dream.
The light of his love, surly – that moment - did beam.
His plan jeopardizes, places her into the hands of hell.
This winged Angel’s love, in her eyes it doth tell.
She accepts her living hell in order to save him.
The old man now tries to save her, prospects grim.
He falls, a plan of the man who owned this winged girl.
The plan failed, the old man’s life did not unfurl
His heart opened and did strive, repent the wrongs meant
as his soul looked out and upon, in sacrament.
One more time, he picks up his trumpet.
Sweet sounds come forth, beauty he let.
She glided, walking on by, again he met
his dream, there, before his eyes.
He runs with her, jumps from on high, she flies,
saving him with the strength and courage he gave to her.
Upon angelic wings, into heavenly bliss, together.
B. J. “A” 2
November 1st 2012
a day inside my mind
What to do? There is so much news
Trump, my mate, didn't do so well. he thought
he could wing it
against a woman whose handlers had dissected
Trump's tendency to brag, beside we must not forget
my old mate is seventy-eight
I have posts in the messenger but can't get in the asks
me for code words, they never asked before
if they have, I have forgotten it all
mind at school, I was good at the multiplication table
but after that, numbers are enemies that cause me
trouble with the tax people
My wife had minor surgery today. I spent
the day at the hospital had lunch there,
The hospital is next door to the car- a testing place where I have to bring my old car for testing
once a year, if the vehicle fails
it will be a catastrophe if that is not enough,
I have to renew
my driving license, which we old people have to do
every year to see if we can drive
I have to give the car to my mechanic to iron out the faults
then I have to see a doctor who will test my hearing
and reactions to sudden happenings.
Most of all, I worry about my wife, sit watching
a TV romance, for once, she is silent
THE BARBERSHOP QUARTET
The barbershop quartet, mustache brushes in hand.
A Capella joviality, with torquing wrists, snapping fingers.
Bristles foaming, silky white and smooth, voices grand.
Dapper in their pinstripe suits, hats — Delmonico brand.
Sweet Adeline, drawn out. My Adeline — peaks, lingers.
The barbershop quartet, mustache brushes in hand.
Choreography matchless with their sugar-cane wands.
One by one they tap and score with lighthearted zingers.
Bristles foaming, silky white and smooth, voices grand.
Bass, lead, baritone and tenor glitz altogether stand,
Impressing the country stage — these polished singers.
The barbershop quartet, mustache brushes in hand.
Differences overlooked, blend of ringing chords command.
Friendship in angelic voice, grooming of youthful wingers.*
Bristles foaming, silky white and smooth, voices grand.
Brothers in harmony, gathering precious social sand.
Through time, the dusty chair spins and memories linger.
The barbershop quartet, mustache brushes in hand —
Bristles foaming, silky white and smooth, voices grand.
4/25/2018
*wingers - I am using to describe the new set of kids who
practice “wing it”
Sweet Adeline written by Richard Gerard
It's raining like dog gone it outside
I can just see all the mothers say "oh dear"
Happy Mother's Day Moms
You all have done such a great job
rearing your youngs through eighteen
and sometimes even longer
Always willing to lend an ear
and so ready with advice
God didn't give you a book
when He sent us your way
Yet you are able to wing it
And wing it you did
You rear up your youngs according to the way
you think you should
We turn out just
FINE
young and dandy
pompous, forgetful
conceited - yet you love us
We turn out
DECENT
because of you
You give us qualities, traits
that are now part of us
What do you need now?
But to hear from you
You never need anything
ask anything of us
except to love you AND to listen
Haha you got that
Even when we appear not listening
our other ears are perked up
- our inner ears
Yes we are so intuned of what you say
that far after it has been said
we can still hear it
Yes we love you, Mothers
And today we salute you
for getting the troop in gear
for feeding and clothing us
for giving us patience and a willingness to care
for instilling in us what are now inside of us
And that is patience and kind
Virtues that you are the champion of
Happy Mother's Day, MOMS
working 12 straight days
she falls asleep on my thigh
no blood circulation, but i just smile anyway
my whole leg will soon be going to sleep with her
working 7 straight 12 hour shifts
my eyes are heavy as well
my heart has a strange rhythm
my temples tingle, and i see very bright spots
like a man, i try to wing it
like a man, i admit that the very exhausted, yet beautiful lady, is right again
sleepiness takes over, and i hear myself snore
next thing we know, it's 4:57am
we feel like we felt medusa's wrath
we decide to go back to sleep right where the lovely journey began
she dreams about winning the lottery
i dream about us taking a cross country trip in an RV
I will report what I have put in the car to be given away today.
So many options that we discussed clouded my confused mind.
You must understand that people like me survive by luck and wit alone.
It is rarely a finished project.
Rarely a completed job.
It is a circus we live in, between the acts,
our giftedness provides.
We are not quiet and seldom still enough
to hear all the directions.
We wing it and lose so many objects as we purge our time away,
and actually,
I went to write a poem right after our last conversation.
When I am pointed in many directions, I often give up.
So I did not plan, no schedule devised,
but I threw and gave away,
debris cluttering up my mind.
From the muddled mind me,
Vehicles of verse serve to prove
how passions and purposes move
from mind to mind.
Our choice letters turn into words;
missives sung by persuasive birds
no axe to grind.
Optimal words will brake at lines
to drive the stanzas home by signs
a nest to find.
While I prefer form as my gauge
some free range bards refuse that cage
the wing-it kind.
Vehicles of verse are the arm
empowering content to charm
when wined and dined.
August 19, 2020
contest Second Chances NA poems of 2020 Part III
hostess: Chantelle Anne Cooke
received NA in Emile Pinet's contest: Tail Rhyme Stanza Poetry Contest judged 8/26/2020
Okay have a good day
Have a good day because the sun is shining
Have a good day because I am smiling :)
Have a good day because all you've done can't be done
Have a good day because Jack hits the road and never comes back
I mean Jack's a.
Lol
Have a good day because I say so and know so
Do I?
You bet
Have a good day because today is your big day
There is no other day like today
Today is the day you live, breathe, and take on fresh air
Today is the day your money is made and is on its way to the bank
Happy that you are saying it out loud
Happy that you are doing it out loud
Love, live, give
Would love if you can sing it
Would love if you can wing it
Would love if you can spin it
Deliver it, man!
Twing
Each language has it’s own beauty…
perhaps that’s why people travel the world seek them…
I imagine, just like me,
they would someday like to speak them…
But there is one language we may never speak…
it is a culture without words
It’s one we step outside to seek…
in the trees…the rivers…the birds.
It’s a language none of us can recreate…
as it remains, to us, unknown
because nature does not translate…
a language all her own.
When rain drops fall…when they first appear
Seedlings immediately know…
as the water reaches them they hear…
little ones…it’s time to grow.
And when the sun’s rays touch that soon-to-be flower…
as it awakens from its womb
the silent sunshine reveals its power….
when it whispers…time to bloom
The wind invisibly rushes out and in…
we try to comprehend but we have no chance
for we know only where she’s been…
as we watch the trees behind her dance.
Songs are the way birds talk, or perhaps the way they pray…
Do they always know the words…or sometimes…do they wing it
And though we don’t know what they’re trying to say…
we enjoy the way they sing it.
We know all living things talk to each other…
We know they’ve found a way
We know they’re conversing with their mother…
We just don’t know what they say.
But that’s okay with us…because we choose…
to enjoy their music and their dance
without recognizing the words they use…
like when we visit Italy or France.
In a way it’s like we’re in a foreign land…
Nature’s land of trees and fish and birds
and tho their language we may never fully understand
we can enjoy the rhythm of their words.