Best Onomatopoeia Poems | Poetry
Below are the all-time best Onomatopoeia poems written by Poets on PoetrySoup. These top poems in list format are the best examples of onomatopoeia poems written by PoetrySoup members
Search for Onomatopoeia poems, articles about Onomatopoeia poems, poetry blogs, or anything else Onomatopoeia poem related using the PoetrySoup search engine at the top of the page.
New Onomatopoeia Poems
Don't stop! The most popular and best Onomatopoeia poems are below this new poems list.
a la Bartholomew Griffin Poetry - ONOMATOPOEIA
by Talbot, Mick
by Carris, Frisk
by Mackin, Nikki
Crackling Hearts an Onomatopoeia Poem
by Stiles, Stacy
by Brjmohun, Seeyam
Onomatopoeia, Oddly Enough
by flanaganwilkie, maggie
View all new Onomatopoeia Poems
The Best Onomatopoeia Poems
Owl’s Whoo Whoo……
Do not ask me whoo is whoo?
I will tell you whoo whoo whoo!
Whoo can fly at night like me?
I don’t know whoo, don’t ask whoo?
How can I see things, at night?
I know how is, you know whoo?
I hate morning and its Sun,
I like moonlight from guess whoo?
What is there, has always been,
Unseen, untold, I know whoo!
When you don’t know whoo is whoo,
Come at night, I’ll tell you whoo.
Whoo whoo is my sound at night
Can you sing like me whoo whoo?
For contest sponsored by Eve Roper
Owls Personification Contest
Copyright © Pashang Salehi | Year Posted 2016
*****To the naked EYE, this poem may seem like gibberish,
but I assure you it is loaded with 24 palindromes,
3 palindrome phrases, 1 hidden palindrome phrase,
and is chock full with enormous wordplay...
oh and one more palindrome in this description.
Can you find more? I challenge you word freaks!*****
____SATAN OSCILLATE MY METALLIC SONATAS____
Last night, around eleven or so, I decided to paint a pink castle.
To my dismay, on display, is what looks more like a pink asshole.
Picasso would've been so proud!
Today, upon recording nothing short of a colossal debacle,
I've chosen to
utilize the eyes of a hostile apostle.
Tossing docile scribble, I'm scribing.
Describing life like a diatribe conniving REVIVER at a revival.
Palindrome EYE to the side of my tribe.
Get in line, standing at the hands of HANNA.
RISE AND VOTE SIR!
POP a PEEP at NOON!
DAD got so damn mad he DID the DEED
and split three XANAX with his MADAM and MOM!
(ALA the ABBA GIG way back in them AHA kookie KOOK days)
Back to peek hassle!
Do ya' think he might like ta' take a stab at my STATS?
*****(this was fun as fun can be:
hope you have half as much fun with it as I did:)*****
Copyright © JSLambert Mister ROBOTO | Year Posted 2014
Like a royal parade,
they waddled across
the well traveled thoroughfare
teeming with autos crawling to a stop;
otherwise road rage reduced to admiration.
The regal drake held his head high—his eyes
piercing straight ahead—oblivious to the traffic.
The obeisance of his trailing brace
reflected a solemn reverence to their chief.
A mother hen shot an evil eye to a baby Donald
who quickly got back in step before exiting onto
the dew laden emerald grass—Glistering.
With the aura of a spa for creatures
bearing wings or fins or tails, as well as feet,
the pond awaited them—one by one
quacking with pleasure as they entered.
As we mounted our bikes
to continue our ride, auto horns
began to honk and obscene words
abated the serene ambiance.
Copyright © millard lowe | Year Posted 2017
John was as a free bird, happy,
Living his life, happy.
When others were sad John, happy,
When John did go no one, happy.
For life is not long at all,
And man is a shadow on a wall,
A wall of time.
John our dearly departing
Death will end his suffering.
Cruel death will do him a favor,
As he will carry him to his Savior.
Writing his will he creates the kiss of death;
This kiss marks him till his final breath.
Here comes a pale horse click, clack, click, clack
Upon it sits Death click, clack, click, clack.
Death rides down the street,
He stops, he looks
For the man with no heart beat,
He enters more silently than the best of crooks.
Death left while carrying John,
Got on his horse and carried on.
John is now in Heaven;
Where no heathen
Nor sickness roam,
Sitting by the white throne;
Walking on the streets of gold;
Never to become old.
Copyright © Isaiah Powell | Year Posted 2014
When it rain, it pours
It's like opening every doors
Whizzing wind, Whispering breeze
Makes your senses at ease.
When it rain it pours
It's like knocking every doors
Thunder here, lightning there
Awaking your sense somewhere.
When it rain it pours
It's like sweeping every floors
Homes are wet, walls have tears
Taking every dirt and fears.
Copyright © Angelo Faunillo | Year Posted 2015
Ho. Ho. Ho. Here we go,
blow off the calendar
Racy red, glazy green
and bright white
blaze into sight.
Hell's bells, boredom tells.
Yuletide pride takes a ride,
while leaves on trees
as yet yearn to turn
and Turkey Lurkey is still
wheezing in the freezer.
Save your sales
for a later date;
in return, you may earn
than you've ever seen.
Copyright © Cona Adams | Year Posted 2014
Tap. Tap. Tap.
Shoes. Clicking against the tiles.
Cling. Cling. Cling.
Keys. Jingling against each other.
Clink. Clink. Clink.
Cuffs. Clanking against the bars.
Drip. Drip. Drip.
Water. Smacking against the floor.
Whack. Whack. Whack.
A whip. Lashing against my skin.
One more day to go.
Just wrote this out in a couple of minutes with my mind on the topic word of "prison". Enjoy!
Copyright © Euphonious Elysium | Year Posted 2015
The wind or the wind As twisting a vine the wreath Breathing the breeze of the divine Sailors on the reef seeking the seas So intwined grows the anime rhyme Wind in your sails as a northeastern blows So through ages sail but when comes the time Searching the end will you last breathe be as cold Rarer air fills the breadth of the land The way with healing in His wings Receive the breath of life again So you may overcome death's sting Rising again children of the Master's wind Not grapes of wrath in the press they wind
Copyright © John Beam | Year Posted 2014
knock knock knock
Copyright © Charles Rutherford | Year Posted 2014
The cold night is awoken and warmed
A family of excitement ready to release their arsenal
Stored under the stairs until the big night
Let the show begin:
Traffic lights – whoosh colour changing
Rockets – whoosh bang screeching
Jack in the box – whoosh bang-jumping
Sparklers – whoosh fizzle-sparkling
Catherine Wheel – whoosh dizzy-spinning
The big one at the end
Copyright © Alexander Seal | Year Posted 2015
Twang toot Fing Foo
Jingle jingle rattle boo
Tiger Tiger splash, squish
Skycrapper’s crashing swish
Wretched retches snorting snuck
Timtimbuctoo’s belching buck
Whoosh whoosh Winnie Treetree murmur
Croaking frogie's hiss hiss charmer
Punipuni giggles growling grunt
Oink oink words' trilling witchhunt
Copyright © RAJAT KANTI CHAKRABARTY | Year Posted 2014
Pleasure primes pain,
Wit wonders why?
Glimpse gutsy gain,
Style sanguine sigh.
Fancy feels faint,
Big blossoms bulge;
Queer questions quaint,
Prompt payment plays,
Ask apt award;
Death delays day,
Reap real reward.
Action aids arm,
Buzzy blooms bounce;
Cherry cheeks charm,
Pretty play pounce.
Wanting woos wealth,
Migraine mulls meet;
Hurts hurling health,
Gloomy groans greet.
Desire dreams day,
Big blossoms beam;
Pure passion plays,
Dear dancing dream.
Sense sensuous surge,
Bright bearings boom;
Play plunders purge,
Greet glory gloom.
Bright blooming book.
Charm creams cherry;
Lasting lines look,
Love leaps lovely.
Soar sweet stanza,
Choice charms charade;
Poise primes parade.
Grab grouchy gaze,
Loss litters lull;
Doom defers daze,
Moments mimes mull.
Dare describe deuce,
Loose lines lessons;
Meet mindful muse,
Words weave weapons.
29 Apr 2014
Copyright © Leon Enriquez | Year Posted 2014
Ezra Weston Loomis Pound
Poetic modernity new.
Seeking no rifacimento
Confusing readers so
Intricate verses make us blue.
Gary Bateman, Copyright © All Rights Reserved
November 22, 2014
Copyright © Gary Bateman | Year Posted 2014
When a poem is born
What is the chance
Of words in rain
Drip drop dance
Ping ting sing
Pitter patter rhyme
Rain dance acceleration
Makes my poem climb
Dribble drench drizzle
Thinking on the fence
Sprinkle splish splash
Bring balance to my sense
From sweat sobs and sorrow
Storm surge steam
Murky thunderous blurry
Cry rage scream
To cleansed and quenched
Shower spray stream
Calm cool clear
My mind is now pristine
The Earth now drenched
It grew a poet tree
Thoughts and water percolate
Now it's sprouted leaves
Copyright © Victoria Reome | Year Posted 2016
I think that I may never see a
tree's sounds lovely as onomatopoeia
to see, to hear, just too profound
sound beats cool on worded ground
ain't it funny to hear a word
that IS what it is, coolly absurd
you may ask what constitutes onomatopoeia
can't say exactly, but hear it when I see it
© Goode Guy 2014-01-03
Copyright © Goode Guy | Year Posted 2014
Every week on Good Friday I get restless
Palpitations rise for my week end disasters
A monster boldly barges into my silent abode
Depriving me of my peaceful slumber
Crash! Now which crockery has ended its life?
The moment I reach the dreaded site
Littered remnants of mugs and glasses
Sprayed on the kitchen floor
Having an afternoon nap is a crime indeed
The dining tablecloths are scrooped down
And I curse my heavy eyelids for drugging me
I wake up to run and my shoes are not there
The good Lord save me! My kitchen cabins
Are invaded, explored and ransacked
The bright packages are crushed and ripped
Salty and sweety snacks carpet the freshly scrubbed floor
I pads, mobile phones, remote controls vanish
I magically recover my drowning hopes
When their batteries are over
My heart beats louder than the speakers
Strumming the beats of nursery rhymes
Till tiny flakes start peeling off the quaky roof
The iridescent walls showcase
The world's finest art repertoire
Nothing short of an international gallery of art
The monster is finally trapped on the garden swing
Smiling gleefully with an outstretched arm
All frowns erase when the two year old
Bob cut tomboy dramatically wails
Granny! Granny! Granny! Granny!
Contest: My Monster
Sponsor: Anthony Slausen
Copyright © Balveen Cheema | Year Posted 2015
(Walking Seven Steps)
Catching the last shot of the sunset sky
Even more rustier than before
Delayed my departure.
I asked my friends to go ahead
And I would catch up with them, but
The perfect shot took longer than I thought.
Packing my bags I hurried downhill knowing
I was lagging far behind the others.
The thickness of the night engulfed me
And I knew I had lost my trail.
Stumbling over a stone I had also
Lost my torch, and started walking blindly
In the darkness of the woods.
The pitch black trees seemed statued
To the ones that breathed life
When I had often trampled
Through the varied wooded parks.
The autumn leaves were crackling
Under my light footsteps as
The tiniest crescent moon smiled
Through the bare leaved branches
Welcoming my partnership on our lone journey.
How long I walked, my feet knew not
How long I would walk, my heart knew not
My map was dark and my eyes could read it not.
But my ears were sharp to hear another crackling
Under footsteps many times heavier than mine.
From the dark slope above I saw a shadow enlarged
Hurrying down to my path as if to lead me out.
My breath was calm, my eyes happy, and quietly
My adventurous spirit followed him wherever he lead.
The woods became denser and our pace quicker
With a click of his finger the air became fresher.
So intoxicated was I with the heavenly air that
It perfumed my soul, my very breath and
Every transient thought that fleeted in,
Till I stood before a very flowery welcoming cottage.
I extended my hand to my shrouded partner and said:
'It takes seven steps together to make a friend.
We have walked more than seven steps together to......'.
My hooded companion most divinely intervened:
'It takes seven steps together to make a friend
It takes seven hours together
To make any journey most heavenly'.
Without raising his chin,without accepting my extended hand
He turned his back to retreat into the woods
As mysteriously as he had entered it.
Copyright © Balveen Cheema | Year Posted 2015
"The only reason for time is so that everything doesn't happen at once."--Einstein
"what's time," asked the tyke
"just pick any time you like
since they all happen at once"
as knows any horological dunce
and dickory up my clock and strike
Copyright © Thomas Martin | Year Posted 2015
Pulse facing, sweat racing
Light deafening sounds blinding
World’s waiting, stage blazing
Times nerving, ticking
All of this to Salute a King
Floors pouring, people raining
A new world order brought about by their Master
Finally, no more violence
Brought about by tender silence
The only nature of its science
Was fearing unrestricted defiance
Saluting King and Kingdom alliance
Yellow majesty and glory
Was witnessing this sacred story
‘See and reap in my Kingdom’ say He
With certainty, destiny foreseen
Praising their Lord and the freedom to be
Eyes listening, ears watching
Feet whistling, fingers shuffling
Sky groaning, thistles moaning
History’s waiting, future’s debating
Hail the King and our new world order
A spurned kiss, a tender brow
Were actions thought to be allowed.
Optimism of this golden Crown
Was the only sober thought that ushered the crowd
As beast and men all salute the King
Copyright © Sizwe Hlabisa | Year Posted 2014
The odor I get The more pungent I get, in a sense incensed but not fowl Not like a fishy can of sardonic or the stink emanating from the open sarcasm, more like, when in aroma Do as the Romans do Dude pulling rank, so do not be, so fusty Flatulent you know, just blowing wind You say, that discharge was a flagrant offense I say, facetious I did it for giggles I think it funny, while you thought it was absurd an obnoxious art You thought it stunk, while I thought it fragrant and pungent
Copyright © John Beam | Year Posted 2017
With eloquent verbosity,
and pompous grandiosity,
he'll voice his bellicosity
to show his intellect.
Devoid of any symmetry,
he'll pass it off as poetry,
but may I beg to differ,
though I mean no disrespect.
Blank verse is what he'll call it,
but no matter how you drawl it,
Mister Webster says that verse
means metric writing.
Since blank means lack of color,
I'll bet two cents to a dollar,
it's not poetry at all
that he's reciting.
Way back when I wore knickers,
there were even then traffickers
in this beat-less rhyme-less writing,
But things were simpler then, you see.
We never called it poetry.
If there's no rhyme or rhythm,
it's just prose.
They say I'm no romanticist,
and surely I'm no fantasist,
but somewhat a semanticist,
who loves to turn a phrase.
I like to rhyme in meter,
and for me there's nothing neater,
than a rhyming meter-beater,
bringing back those good old days.
Copyright © Warren Dickman | Year Posted 2015
Where this time?
The pair makes several tries--
my hard hat, a can of nails, window ledge
all filled with leaves.
How do they judge
those inferior, this one prime?
I don't know how.
So too their songs--
he two-notes or three-notes,
and she chirrrs along.
Same songs, same positions,
morning in and morning out.
I wake to their repetition.
If they watch me, no doubt
they'd see my own routines,
but neither they nor I can find
what isn't wired in my genes.
Why does this human mind
hear Figaro, Figaro, Figaro
in his operatic voice?
Or is it video, video, video?
It's his song, but my choice.
Copyright © Wallace Kaufman | Year Posted 2014
Break from blowing heat
tip-toe creeping on concrete
trust cut deeper holes.
Copyright © Mark Merk | Year Posted 2016
caw caw caw
the crow's on my roof
waiting for their breakfast,
the magpie's call
usually first to the table,
a shrill little tweet
go the sparrow's and their relatives
awaiting their feed
in smaller bites
from the safety of their prickly bush;
the sounds of the morning's
are heaven sent.
Elizabeth alexander 25/12/2015
Copyright © elizabeth alexander | Year Posted 2016
They went through the woods
in worn out shoes
to pick a life no one should,
to make a choice no other’d choose:
To defend the trees,
their roots, their spires -
even the leaves
were deeply admired.
So they took up their arms,
and sharpened their sticks;
they sounded the alarms,
and marched into the thick.
And all around them were burnt-out stumps,
fallen branches and logs.
Smoke tainted their virgin lungs,
and they knew they had to right the wrongs.
Then into the heart they slowly crept,
wielding their sharp tools;
They found where the Fires hid and wept,
and they pounced on him like childish fools.
Their tools of wood burned,
as would the whole of their world,
and for Ice they yearned
just before their eyes rolled back like pearls.
Copyright © Philip James Tyler | Year Posted 2016