Bongs Poems | Examples

My Best Mechanical Friend

My Best Mechanical Friend

You pester me with the slightest errors.
You bing and bong
Giving me night terrors.
I want drive along
And not listen to musical scarers.

It’s three degrees and you let me know.
You shout at me. 
And then you show
On the dash a disaster ahead
And you bing and bong 
While but nothing is said.

You’re a lovely car I wouldn’t swap.
I just want the bings and bongs to stop.
Let me drive in blissful peace.
And not steer while grinding my teeth.
An eighties car that’s what I need.
It doesn’t have feelings, it doesn’t bleed.
It’ll carry on until it drops.
It won’t flash and bleep if a tyre pops.

Then I drive you just one more day
The sun is shining, so beeps are okay.

David Cox 23/04/24

The PNW Poetry Guy

In the heart of the evergreen state where mountains touch the sky
You’ll find the PNW Poetry Guy under Mt. Rainier’s watchful eye 
With the South Sound’s rain-soaked landscape boasting tall fir trees
The PNW Poetry Guy’s verses are penned in the cool misty breeze 

From Seattle's shimmering skyline to Tacoma’s tide-flats 
The PNW Poetry Guy honors his roots wearing many hats
Observer, consumer, and admirer of the beauty mountains to sea
The PNW Poetry Guy inspired by an Emerald City spirit so free

Mossy paths winding through sprawling foothills in the Cascades
The PNW Poetry Guy enjoys the forest-covered steep hiking trail grades
Through the Puget Sound whispers to Ocean Shore’s rhythmic songs
The PNW Poetry Guy writes among scents of coffeeshops, fish grease and bongs

City Center, Montlake and SODO are special places energizing Seattleite’s hearts
The PNW Poetry Guy at the stadiums and arenas as our teams do their parts
Sure, we have problems but through diversity and inclusion they are addressed
The PNW Poetry Guy is proud to be born and raised in the majestic Northwest

Story of An Addicts Wife

First before you say anything, I'm in love with my husband but the drug addiction gets hard to watch. *Possible trigger warning*
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------Bongs, bubbles and needles...
Awake days, even weeks on end
Losing you slowing it's taking you from us...
Sleeping alone to sleepless nights
When will you wake up...
Childhood pain, losing those you care about, so much sadness
Numbing the pain to cope...
Slowly fading away, pulling, pushing...
Though I know the reason I do not know the hold that it has on your soul...
Please come back to us, losing you is a nightmare only getting worse by the day...
By your side always, forever protecting you. I love you my love!

Life Is But a Dream

Puff, puff, puff, that joint.
Slowly if you please.
Happily, happily, happily, happily.
Bongs are but a tease.


05/08/2023


Mother Goose Grows Up Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Miranda Hawley
"Row, row, row your boat"


05/08/2023


Mother Goose Grows Up Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Miranda Hawley
"Row, row, row your boat"

Moonstruck

The roundness of a drop of water
keeps me stuck on spin,
no flat earth could wash so cleanly.

The moon could be hollow,
it rings like a bell when struck.
I study bells and their carved-out emptiness.
I interpret tones and their bongs
into words.

Last evening
I was distracted by moonlight -
it trembled.
Light is so much faster
than bells chimes.
Patiently I waited in the shimmer,
then came the deep and distant ringing.
The sleeping birds heard it also,
Owls spun their heads
like silver coins.

A thunderstruck night sky
intoned its obscure vespers.
Ears detecting, but the sound
seemed not so much outer 
but inwards -
a vibrations of being.

The chipmunk
who had raced here and there all day long
stood as still as a tiger
eyes alight 
in the burning bright hollowness
of that carillon call.

Utopian Smoke

Utopian Smoke
David J Walker

tie-died Salesmen in ponytails
offered  peace in an
Aquarian timeshare
for annual fees and considerations 
keys of dried green grass line 
Golden streets with Brass Bongs
And the utopians smoke 
in long tokes exhaling 
foreign views of a world
from the peaks of unnamed 
Mountains
where Everyone is equal 
Because everyone is No one
who drink from the same fountain
Addressing the various alias 
Sir names on forged birth certificates
quoting Dylan as the
Odd god of mangled and 
Meaningless phrases 

The tie-died Salesmen in ponytails
Have taken apartments 
On Wall Street

A Villanelle Tra La La -

A Villanelle Tra La La 
Tra la la-I couldn't stop thinking bout this song
Twas just so minuscule and kind
This I could never forget this verse twangs bings-bongs

That morn, hearing this new verse encounters so long a song
The song so calming settling each and every line
This musical verse couldn't stop thinking about the song

Later, ringing singing tra-la-la
I tried to focus on angelic ringing bells
I can't, could never forget the twang

tried to distract sounds with a versed-line
Tra la la it was time to start thinking about this line
Tra la la couldn't stop ringing it's bells-bongs 

This I could never forget this verse twangs bings-bongs
Twas just so minuscule and kind
Tra la la-I couldn't stop thinking bout this song

I can't, could never forget the twang
I tried to focus on angelic ringing bells
Later, ringing singing tra-la-la

Tra la la-I couldn't stop thinking bout this song


8/8/20
written word by James Edward Lee Sr. 2020 ©

Pelosi Vs Trump-Round Two

Dazed and confused and buzzing hard
The aging duo now sorts their cards
They take a rest and search for air
Joe jumps on Nancy and sniffs her hair
A new concoction to fan the flame
Warm Pabst Blue Ribbon will bring Trump fame
He bongs a six pack and swings his sword
I don’t think Nancy can take much more
She digs down deep with a Schlitz big mouth
It’s tangy, refreshing and very stout
Her secret weapon does not faze Trump
He dons a mask and blows some chunks
Here comes one more, to this battle round deuce
It’s Snoop Doggy Dog with his gin and juice.
He just smoked a bowl and ate some beans and cheese
This one’s over folks, with just one sneeze
Scheduled for five but fell a bit short
Snoop Dog cuts cheese with full report.

Life Verses Death

Life can be compared to a cunning fox,
We often need to cogitate out of box;
Showcasing our cleverness.

Death can be compared to gloomy songs,
We need to surrender as the time bongs;
Accepting with braveness.

Life and death are non-identical entities,
We need to agnize, there aren't immortalities;
Relenting sheer earnestness.

28-5-2020

~DEEPA~

Third place in the contest.
Note:Triple Stanza Couplet Tail-Rhyme Poetry Contest
Sponsor:Charles Messina

Soul Sounding Music

Lazily, disdaining up above the sky to pursue
As the setting of the sun is to indolent to hold
Such a tournament is lengthened and embedded in gold
While the sun passively darkens for a night barbecue

I sit beneath a silvery moon hearing barking hounds
for some men have orgies near the Genious of the South
with blood-shot eyes and sweet sugar caned-lips and scented mouths
such surprising sounds while making folk songs like soulful sounds.

Their music vibrates above pine trees made up like guitars
Strumming, picking and singing songs of endearments in vain
many are now caroling a vesber up to the stars.

Mighty singers, I hear resinous in your throaty of songs
they are heard so sacredly like a whisper within the pines
were they given to virgin lips and cornfield concubines
To hear dreams of Christ till I meet dusty cane-lipped bongs.

Psychedelic Author

I’m a unique specimen, 
made of mescaline and ketamine. 
And the last living resident,
of an intergalactic settlement.
Burnt to the ground,
by time travelling middlemen.
I came with the cannon, 
aiming only to try and bury them.
And when I aim for their president,
I will not miss my friend. 
Now I’ve done the job, 
I will disappear again. 
Like the last living remanence,
of a long forgotten culture.
Disappeared too quickly,
picked at by the vultures. 
Bones into dust,
Picked up by the wind.
And we never knew the story,
cause we’re never taught a thing.
Meet the psychedelic poet,
trying to live stoic.
He’s earmarked for death,
and he doesn’t even know it. 
I’ve met alcoholic authors,
with bongs in their hands.
Staring out of the windows, 
cause they’re awfully prang.
I remember nights doing pipes,
but now my mind is sober. 
But eternally restless,
seeking some final closure.
The makeshift king,
searching for the evidence.
I am seeking refuge 
And my mind needs the medicine.

All In Her Lips

Her lips take me to all of the places that I haven't been.
My tongue peeking from behind teeth. 
The secrets inspired by us and us alone.
Exploring the world with our eyes closed.
All at once. 
We too leaned against the cathedral
The very moment our eyes opened.
We wore each other's look.
Suddenly surprised at the places we came to be.
The sights we longed to see,
Now our favorite. 
The bongs our heart made,
Discovering how big Ben really was.
The chimes always with us.
Through her shoes I felt her heart race. 
Opening my eyes once just to see what beauty looked like.
This infatuation wrought in iron.
Stacked high to establish how far up we've come.
The lights that causally lit up along the way.
The fold indented in her neck.
The way she couldn't pace her breath. 
81-stories up.
Our tongues the guide which produced the path we walked.
Convinced that we were the silhouette cast from the buildings we admired.
We pulled the shade on the Windows of the world.
Discovering something much more.
The sunset in each other's eyes
Soon as we opened them

Dong But Not For Long

They clapped a clock
At noon today.
Some gave applause,
Some yelled "Hooray"
Some others weeped,
They shed a tear,
We no longer
Big Ben will hear.

For four long years
Silence will reign
In Westminster
But there's no pain
Busses will pass
MPs will sleaze
Time will just pass
Like a summer breeze

What will the Beeb
Do 'fore the news
Just shout six bongs?
Give us a clue!
And at midnight
Will there be nought
Instead of chimes,
Just silence caught?

It's not the end
As some would say,
Sobbing, wailing,
Grieving away.
It will be back,
In a few years,
So stop grieving,
Give it three cheers!.

Its just a bell
that makes a "dung"
It's not yet war
with Kim Jong-un.
There's so much more
We need to fix
So just forget
Big Ben at Six.

Heads Down, Engaged To Screen, Remote

Tanka
Folk Heads Down in Flocks

waders stoop heads down
feeding uncoupled in flock.
like texters bowing
heads down to worship screen folk
disengaged with here and now

Heads Down, Engaged to Screen, Remote

Like waders at dawn sifting mud
with heads-down stance,
Modern folk in flocks with heads down, peer at screens
With thumbs a-tapping, eyes engaged 
with friends on screen remote
But what of the here and now? 
Those poor folk you are with, are ostracised,
displaced by 'You've got mail',
subplanted by there and then.
It is worrying how screen worship
has become such a priority.
It is infectuous when others all around you do it.
Interuptions to conversations now an accepted interlude,
not seen to be rude, when message calls
with bongs and rings, 
demand heads-down bowing stoop
to worship screens.

Bongs and Beer Pong

To whom does this belong
this giant cylinder bong?
Perhaps this blue bong belongs
to those in the throng
or perhaps to those playing beer pong

• Short Bongs Poems
• Famous Bongs Poems
• Best Bongs Poems
• Read Bongs Poems
• Long Bongs Poems
• Bongs Quotes