Best Gung Ho Poems
"Going All Bruce Lee"
It’s like holding water
in your hands.
they say, be like water
as if on the drop,
the turn of H20 on tap,
one can go all Bruce Lee.
he was rather gung-ho;
but the subliminal message
he projected, without malice
in his lithe fluidity
brought on dreamy visions
of going all soft
and compliant.
one might say
malleable,
with the flow.
water has its hard moments
like when it turns to ice.
frozen in cold
abrupt moments.
I read a poet, tonight,
she says,
“consciousness swims slick
outside my fingers,
trembling perceptions
pure and round.
Infinitely slow
I close my grip,
entrapping and watch
them drown”.
I felt that.
I felt that.
Memories of what was
solid once, drift down
with the heaviness of time,
weight sinking through the
lightness of water.
Sun shines
through water.
it touches
the top to mid-section
doesn't mean it rhymes
in time with
what is beautiful
and poetic. Sometimes
the beauty lies, ugly,
at the bottom,
covered in silt.
drowned.
you know what I mean.
I know you know
what I mean.
Sunshine never
touches that place.
but treasure and
objects of beauty
lie there, waiting to be found.
the silt residing
with sunken treasure,
that which also lies
with car wrecks, sifting
rotting useless tenure,
carries residual essence.
there is found forgotten
moments of beauty and
pleasure in the discarded
flotsam and jetsam
washed up on a shore,
like memories
begging to be gripped
in palms that want
to be read. it aint shiny and new.
shells held to an ear,
there is message
in the sound;
we are just, content
with the mystery of it all.
"Empty your mind.
Be formless, shapeless,
like water.
You put water into a cup,
it becomes the cup."
Me and drowned
Bruce Lee, in the end
floating memories.
war came in like
a flood, no ark
nor shipped
platform to be
saved.
Memories dissolve
like aspirin.
We swallow
all we love
and understand,
the meaning of it all
hits us on review.
eventually,
we float
immortal
into other worlds
on the next tsunami.
dry bed
or wet,
we sink, we rise,
we float away
into other worlds.
we accept
the contract.
we ride the next wave.
(LadyLabyrinth / 2022)
My husband is in many ways the opposite of me.
Were he to make a left turn along a route, I’d go right inevitably.
Astrologically, he’s emotional (double water) but I’m a stable triple earth.
He rarely laughs, not even at a comic’s show, while I enjoy mirth.
As time went on, I realized he really was a nut.
Had he been a shoe, he’d be a heavy boot, always kicking butt.
Impatient, tactless, rude and often feeling out of joint,
he handcuffed himself to an official’s chair just to make a point.
A self-made gung-ho contractor within years he became.
But being accident prone, himself he often would maim.
Jack-hammered his own foot, fell two stories off a roof,
nearly removed his thumb with a saw (to give you a little proof).
He yelled a lot, got scammed, got stabbed, and had a nervous breakdown,
but he’s not the type of man to easily go down.
He learned to recognize the damage done to himself and his brother
from being raised and controlled by a narcissistic mother.
Once he got on pills for anxiety and depression,
the second half of our married years saw great lessening of aggression.
He worked a bit as a bounty hunter when building got too slow
and drove trucks long-distance too. Over half the states he’d go.
He aggravates me even now, but he’s much more mellow.
He’s loyal and never could be accused by someone as acting yellow.
Though physically afflicted, we’re both at ease with one another today.
And if he were a shoe, he’d be an old worn slipper - tough boot tucked away.
Punxsutawney Phil Speaks
A life of Riley, I wallow,
While at the fairground my fans are all gung-ho
Why should I bother to come out of my hollow?
They’re all out there waiting and watching for the verdict
I have the right to object, but they might evict
I am so excited they all wait for me to show now
My gorgeous bod and to take a bow,
For my stunning warm furry rodent performance
And all my noisy whistles, shrills, and sometimes my happy grunts
Should I keep wallowing in my hollow?
Or let them suffer by seeing my strikingly attractive shadow
And let them think they have six more weeks of winter or bring
Them at ease and be kind and do my duty and let them have spring
Or be the star of the day and be honored
To parade me around raise over their shoulders while cheered and be bantered
My fans dance, rise, analyze, and criticize
With the blinding display of light exploding in from of my eyes
I come out to make my debut, but a shadow I saw and with shrieks
Ran back in my hollow to wallow another six weeks
1/16/2015
Sponsor: John Lawless
Contest: Punxsutawney Phil Speaks
It started off simple enough - a peck on the cheek.
(nothing tantalizing by any means)
But then she did that delicious something
... that made my whole body weak.
And before any could protest,
with their carefully organized rebuttals,
all Common Sense ran for the hills,
but I was already at the peak
with knees still eager for the bend,
and eyes on high alert
for her nature's next flirt.
A well-made umbrella (just in case)
when my Curvaceous Cinderella cascades
with her rain of buttons
(Mr. Frankie S. never would have guessed
this kind of monsoon)
... and everything just begins to bloom
in vibrant color.
When she does that delicious something
it is like none other.
And my inner being just melts;
an ice cream cone
on a summer sidewalk sugar streams
trailing wherever they may,
as ants find their natural attraction,
a similar thing takes place
with an altogether different kind of animal.
And I'm absolutely gung-ho
to wherever it may go.
When she does that special something,
and the Seraphim of old begin to sing,
it's like a gaggle of goosebumps flooding the surface area
honking their satisfaction;
saliva-esque rivers to nourish a barren wasteland.
Life has sprung deliciously anew
in my surprising thoughts of you.
She takes me by the hand
to the precipice of my prudishness
as a light evening breeze (her whispering tease)
upsets my balance -
and victory over vertigo - I jump
into everything
into nothing
When she does
that delicious something.
An old scholar called Mi Balls Hung Lo
Wished he could put his gonads on show
His poor wife got quite mad
But his daughter said “Dad…
just remember to add a big bow”
By Jan Allison
Now Hung Lo was really Gung Ho.
He had his big bow now in tow.
The new goal he set
was somehow to get
little Mister Happy to grow.
By Dale Gregory Cozart
Dolly Parton said, "Hey there Hung Lo!"
"Why don't you appear on my show?"
"While we're on the air
we'll show our two pair,
It might make your wee Happy grow."
Dolly said to Lo on a dare:
"Would you show off your pair?
I'll show mine
They're very fine
but not all covered with hair!"
By Lim'rick flats aka John Wulf
Lil' Mister Happy wanted to grow
So he could become part of the show
But overshadowed a tad
by the two giant gonad
Now so sad is Mi Balls Hung Lo.
by John Gondolf
To cheer him up they took sad Mr. Hung lo
To a place for encouragement to grow
Down they did jut
A poem for each nut
Mr. happy stood up tall for the show
By Pat Adams
Just woke up to this gorgeous day
What joy, think I'll go out to play
In my skivvies I will
Oh what a thrill
Tiptoe through the tulips twittering away
By Jack Ellison (My Poetry Soup Brother)
When Mi balls hung lo joined the nomads
Something happened to his small gonads,
the further they would go
much bigger, they did grow,
So he now uses them as knee pads,
Due to drinking the milk of the Yak
his large gonads started to shrink back
the more milk he did drink
more his gonads did shrink
problem was they were turning jet black.
By Roy Pett
PLEASE SOUP MAIL ME YOUR POEM AND I WILL ADD IT TO THE COLLABORATION
10-04-17
(whose video powerfully, profoundly, and
positively affected this southeastern residing
Pennsylvania papa)!
Afflicted with Cystic Fibrosis since her birth
contagious exuberance, gung-ho,
infectious jubilance noah dearth
which eye opening (then tearing)
podcast link sent tummy
FaceBook account,
she distilled and
didst poignantly blog the
purpose driven life,
no matter...hmm...
her existential time
nearing thee finis
line on planet Earth
though upworthy defying
deathly clasp of grim reaper,
who scythe lent
lee doth await
she (titled lass of poem) established
a substantial supportive network,
via such an up
beat aura, charisma,
persona, et cetera create
ting global bond sans,
world wide web, aye equate
chance lucky opportunity
to witness airily especial
and gutsy acceptance
of her (congenital) grim fate
while this healthy
(as an oxymoron) lix
spit tilling chap doth hate
sweaty palms (a minor,
though tolerable inconvenience)
versus being irate
at an accursed disease
still no cure as of late,
yet...state of
the art revolutionary treatments
provide longevity, and... YES
possibility to discover a mate
though consigning severe limitations
but...WOW, that girl (unknown
til yesterday) doth narrate
positivity, which amazing
will power didst permeate,
within thine noggin
triggering sincere flowing tears
bursting forth at an unstoppable rate
hence this attempted rye
ming livingsocial tribute
to go for broke
esprit de corps elan trait
completing a bucket list
while eternal sleep will wait!
F - First of November, winter takes the reins,
R - rime appears as Jack Frost has his first peek,
O – Oddly it seems, the Sun moves out of town;
S - shortly, the grass will turn a nasty brown.
T - The fall days will grow briefer week by week.
Y - Yes, winter is here and Jack entertains.
J - Jogging, Jack makes quick work of all his rounds.
A - Ah! he cackles, as we turn up the heat.
C - Crystals cluster, and sadly he retreats;
K - King of winter has hardened up the grounds.
G - Gone the leaves; outdoor fun is out of bounds;
O - other entertainment we’ll find pleasing.
E - Evenings colder, temps have dropped to freezing.
S - Soon snow appears but Jack cannot be found.
M - Missing, he skips Christmas then New Year calls;
I - I’ll bet he 's gone to warm winds they’ll cater,
S - seems he wants no blame for ice-packed snow.
S - Strange as that is, where does the jokester go?
I - In hiding, closer to the equator?
N - Notwithstanding thaw, he’ll return next fall.
G - Gentle guy, Jack, not gung ho, not goofball.
Jan. 4, 2017
Sponsor Caren Krutsinger
Contest Name Autumn Acrostic Poetry Contest
Twas a dark knight,
whence there came a pawn the hushed crowded movie house
A phantom of horror sprung out of the rookery that wrought deadly havoc
Renting asunder innocent audience members
Anticipating Batman annihilate evil within Manichean eternal duel
Extant within imaginary world of Gotham portrayed on the silver screen
When out of the black curtained theater tear gas canisters got hurled pell mell
Accompanied by a fusillade of heavy machine gun fire
Sheering many lives
Many in the prime ascent sans parabola of adulthood
The youngest, a six-year-old girl transformed into an ashen colored corpse
Which death yet revealed to her young mother
Critically wounded, and clamoring for said daughter
While teetering on the brink of mortality
Oblivious to stricken offspring
While family, friends, relatives and anonymous prayers
And this heartfelt genuine communiqué
From me – a self styled nonestablishmentarian
Gung-ho to invoke a mandate that high powered fire-arms
Must be much less accessible
I.e. bulletproof laws need implementation pronto
So inhabitants of these United States do not fear for their lives
Nor feel akin to a potential prey sighted in the crosshairs
Wantonly gunned down from some grinning joker
Slaking glee from mass killing as to appease unquenchable thirst
To avenge some psychotic nemesis gloating to slay
With a vengeance and contrived vendetta
Promulgating pandemonium and grisly bloody aftermath
Yet despite such horrific heinous atrocity
Bravery and sacrifice witnessed and extolled
From heroic instinctual motive to offer themselves as human shield
So that carnage less devastating than toll on madman’s hit list
Now in solitary confinement and even if executed
Would be a Pyrrhic salve to those forever deprived of loved ones
Burning with an eternal sorrow no matter
Generosity of cyber sympathizers across World Wide Web
Plus the president of these United States
Reach out showering kindness analogous to Borealis raiment!
What should I write, what do you think
How's about tightie whities
The kind that get most women all worked up
Divesting themselves of their nighties
Even if you plead you have a headache
She's in no condition to listen
Those tightie whities are driving her crazy
Down below she starts to go fishin'
All of a sudden your headache disappears
Now it's you who's all gung ho
You yell out “tally ho, ride 'em cowboy”
She screams bloody murder “woo ho”
That continues for thirty-eight seconds
Then collapsing exhausted on the floor
You scream out “got a cramp in my leg”
She yells, “I want more, I want more, I want more!”
Think to myself that's the very last time
It's polka dot boxers from now on
Tightie whities will be the death of me
At my age, ain't got that long
Ha... a fairy tale!!!
© Jack Ellison 2013
Stop pushing your religion down my throat
Banging my head against your bible, mister
Throwing hell’s fire in my wake
To awaken some sort of lost
Regurgitated state
Of disillusionment
Trying to distress the demons of out of me
With your condescending
Deeper then understanding
Voice, resounding in these
“heathen” bones of mine
Holier then thou
Gung ho attitude
Heads twisted over pews
Whispering allegations I hope I never hear
Because the words that are spiraling out of your mouth now
Makes my blood seem
A little thicker, darker
Eviler, all of the sudden
By the dark eyes of Judgment
You have no right to judge me
I’m not a Muslim, I’m not a Jew
And I guess I’m not a Christian
Because if I was I guess I would be losing my religion
Flushing down the drain with my soul
Down to hell like they say
All the lonely people
In their beds fuming in their self righteous anger
Drowning happiness devout in their heads
Burnt in by branding of scorning and lighting of torches
Against ordinary people
So what if my hips sway a little bit too much when i walk
My skirt is a little shorter
My stance is a little stronger
The words flowing from my mouth are a little bit dirtier
My soul is a little bit hotter
Poetry streaming from my pen is a little bit spicier
Does that automatically mean
That your God
Wouldn’t love me?
If movies are reflections of our world,
Then why does violence play a leading role?
Consenting sex, whose scenes are wrapped and furled,
Is cut in line so gore can score its goal.
The act that violence plays in life is minor
Compared to sex and love, who reign supreme,
And by degrees are viewed as widely finer
Than wrath and hate’s unnatural extremes.
But we inherited from Puritans
Our backwards views on sexual liberation.
While gung-ho guns parade like charlatans,
I’ll forwards choose to duel and match my nation.
When sex and love get demonized, assaulted,
Then fear and hate are glorified, exalted.
Deep within throes of writer's block cerebral cortex feels frozen to the core
Haint no rhyme nor reason
why writing a poem such an arduous chore
twenty two days afore
winter solstice twenty twenty more
or less three weeks from tomorrow
November thirtieth, I implore
the god/goddess of poetry,
perhaps found within Bangalore
highlighted by the 'Green Door'
guarded by the key don Eeyore
also known as Al Gore
him of Earth in the Balance fame
who by George got ambushed unsure
if he chad chance to claim victory tour
when former candidate did score
less electoral college votes
nevertheless in my mind before
thoroughgoing count did ignore
discarded ballots scattered
all across the floor
which outcome incurred Iraq war
insinuating weapons of mass destruction
the gung ho forty third president forswore
existed but quite a few
respectable Republicans did abhor
pinning such ambiguous lore
upon head of recalcitrant Saddam Hussein
bombed back to stone age
think lavishing primitive home decor
no imprecation heaped and hurled
upon United States military, nor
thug, who nobody did adore
asking politely "por favor
can I pretty please take detour
to Galapagos Islands of Ecuador
made famous courtesy Charles Darwin
still popular best selling author
at garden variety generic bookstore
which borders on ridiculous for sure
yet inane rhyme tore
thru my noggin after writer's block
yours truly did deplore
he would spend countless hours in vain
every burst of creativity I did explore
found me smack dab against
figurative cul de sac and bonjour
to you too three score
orbitz after me late papa did bore
mama, she passed away
fifteen years before.
I'm going gung-ho, I'll let the gun blow, I aint done no, until I say so,
I've got sayings to sow, when I lay they go woah,
ink the words in the row as I show off and show why to throw me the doe,
I can row the boat slow, fly high dive low, don't underrate bro and belittle or bellow as my bow and arrow will hit you I'm hallow. I'll take in the takings like a baker with dough, rhyme baking and making it rise up and grow, win prizes through flow as I fly like a crow. An honoured untouchable tactical poet
incredibly abled to powerfully show it. Could it be these single syllables
are only good for simple silly fools and simply stupid individuals who sin and sit all cynical while I sing with awe so clinical reaching toward the pinnacle, ideals I'm phenomenal, I feel this is probable.
God determines my fate today
I was going to go one way
And He said "go another"
by not giving me what I want
or shall I say what I thought I want?
Isn't that funny?
We are so gung-ho in going on our directions
that we forgot what our mission was
I still don't know what my direction is
But I know it's not that
since He didn't give it to me
Maybe it is the direction that I think it is
before I forgot it
Haha I am talking in circles
But the bottom line is I know that I know
That is not that
But I still don't know what it is
Can someone tell me what it is?
I am just kidding
He is taking His sweet time
Maybe I should too
Taking my sweet time
Ahh - What should I do?
I know
I just pretend I don't hear Him
and take my sweet time
No - He is going to know
Maybe I'll make Him wait
No - can't do that either
He is going to know and
He is going to not wait
Shoot - what a person to do
That's just it
What a person to do?
Man versus God
There is no equal
God versus man
There is equal
Did you get that?
My father marched gung-ho towards anarchy,
Many friends by his side fell before the end,
They died brave in the face of danger and sin,
Their memories erased buried in mud blend.
The men went to their deaths leaving hell behind,
For the battle forged on brutally through cold,
And bitter winds, which bore down on them assigned,
From whence my father was delivered quite bold.
Thus he survived the futile carnage of war,
All the same the experience left him ill,
Having been subjected to hell's thoughtless whore,
Serving one master, with flashes of free will.
She wrought on the unstoppable panzer rage,
And crushed weary battalions in her path,
Where orders from Berlin were to foe engage,
Hence they fell parallel into mire and wrath.
While, for terror they gave in to cruel madness,
Raping corpses where they lay in utter waste,
Spurred on by the pledged horror of their obsess,
Arched in tragic throes without bridges of haste.
Wisely thence my father sought to flee the doom,
As every sin was committed to stay sound,
Tho' for many it was through and through in gloom,
And there they were, rotting in the mushy ground.
Death had arrogated them quite suddenly,
Without warning, and brutally sacrificed,
They therefore left this world to dogs tragically,
Where its thus manifested rage so advanced.
My father was there, crying for some true faith,
Did he find it? None knows for sure his resolve,
But for the fact the past haunted him its wraith,
Turning the cursed war he fought into his helve.
And his children suffered as he relived hell,
With many cruel whippings unleashed onto them,
I tell this story 'cause war cannot be swell,
It is so maligned, that which all must condemn.