Long Ballyhoo Poems
Long Ballyhoo Poems. Below are the most popular long Ballyhoo by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Ballyhoo poems by poem length and keyword.
Talk to me, don't run away from me.
Speak to me, you are in me
I am listening...
I never lied to you
nor will I ever do
I never said I never loved you.
Don't be fooled by ballyhoo
I can always prove my love for you
and no one else can stop me to
Talk to me, don't walk out on me
Speak to me, don't evade me
I am heeding...
Don't desert me because I never said goodbye
I am not the most beautiful of all
But I'm the only one you could ever have
in this world --
the only one who will be there by your side
The only one who will stand for you all the while
Don't keep me waiting
I don't have all the time in this world
To keep you safe and loved all the time
To keep you warm and strong all my life
To love and to be loved in return is the best part
No gods or rules can break us apart
To love and to believe is all that matters
That our love will stay forever young
Until the later time when everything on earth
breaks and falters
(Sponsor : Kai Michael Newmann)
MOON ON A SPOON
If I could I would
fetch you the moon
on a spoon
Oh ? Really !
you ballyhoo coon
you make me swoon
If I could I would
fetch you the moon
on a spoon
Why not bring me
a chocolate cocoon
I will wriggle out
festooned !
If I could I would
fetch you the moon
on a spoon
We will eat it at noon
in our magical room
then to our doom !
If I could I would
fetch you the moon
on a spoon
My goon, so goop !
Where are you from ?
a souk goof ?
If I could I would
fetch you the moon
on a spoon
How ?
Lo ! I do not know !
My spoon has
sailed with a
monsoon
And the moon
has fallen into
a true blue
lagoon too
soon !
Posted on Christmas Eve, happy cuz Trump soon leaves
America finally gets a reprieve from the lies he weaves
Well, pardon ME if you disagree, but he's one and done
He's been pardoning crooks, murderers, daughter & son
giving the phrase, "Who let the dogs out?" the answer
It's the narcissist who infected the country with cancer
It's time for a celebration and Happy New Year to cheer
A new President will reside in the White House next year
Trump will have to vacate his throne. It's been conferred.
No fraud took place or election rigging. That was absurd!
Joe Biden will be moving into 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue
Uniting our country without Trump's drama and ballyhoo
What a poor example he's been as a leader; head of state
America was better off before he said he'd make it great.
Move along with your counterfeit tan and puckered mouth
Take your cocky kids with you as you putt your way South.
Let's hope once he's gone, out great nation will soon heal
with a commander who can keep our ship on an even keel
"Trump's descended into madness," "He's lost his mind"
Recent headlines that his supporters will claim are unkind
but considering the mess he's made of many vital issues,
the only sympathy I can offer them is a box of tissues
The oval office will need steam cleaning and fumigation
No portrait of him to hang. Let him take that to litigation!
It's reported Trump is headed South, to his Florida estate
His new slogan, just released: "Trump 2024 ~ DONATE!"
He's spent more time golfing than acting like a President
His Mar-a-Lago neighbors don't want him as a resident!
The worst possible fraud committed in the last four years
is the fake role he played, condoned by Republican peers
It won't be smooth waters for a while because of the scum
he's left behind; that shameful man, that do-nothing bum
America has been stumbled from each inept Trump blunder
pitting brother against brother; he's ravaged us all asunder
He once said the world was laughing at our great nation
The truth is they laugh at him; a presidential abomination
Charley my wheel horse says that Jim is a yack, always jawing now.
They are both scrunchers, they nearly swallow their teeth on chow.
Jim is unsalted, but not lazy or slow, although he has trail dust grime.
He always responds well to “all hands and the cook” and in good time.
When the Mexican vaquero joins us, there is back slapping sure.
That’s when the biscuit roller trades in biscuits for tortillas, pure.
A ballyhoo? I do not think so, Bar dog. Can I get a John barley corn?
I would like to drink the cattle drive off my spurs, until it be morn.
How much does it cost to stay in the dice house tonight?
Don’t want to be honey-fuggled, so no Kansas sheep dip, all right?
a fresh mail order cowboy just entered the saloon, of course.
Don’t want to be a nosy parker, but did he just dismount the iron horse?
Did you see where I put my gelding smacker? I sleep with it naturally.
I am no lapper, but I could go for another John Barley Corn from thee.
Texas cakewalk tomorrow? Hmmm I wish I could stay but I am dragg’n.
Say hello to my cousin Sam, he drives the county’s meat wagon.
I kind of like a good hang’n when there’s a well-deserved California collar.
Was they horse thieves or murderers or what? Hey give my horse a holler.
I thought I saw a Cottonwood blossom when I rode into this place.
But there was no hellaballoo, so I wondered if it was the case.
Donald Trump, Lemony Snicket ghost Spiro
Agnew, plus knowledgeable Jiminy Cricket,
all reliable, trustworthy sources, who
would never misinform gullible traveler
I know time to lather up
with poetic shampoo
so don't you dare ballyhoo
moost likely known
to garden variety wahoo
(When You Wish Upon a Star goo
whee lyrics aside...), particularly
following feedback haint "FAKE,"
just like this tattoo
on each posterior cheek
helping move doo doo
i.e. private business,
anyway pardon loo
pee wordplay, now lemme continue
though ye would would
much prefer I bid thee adieu,
ham back from the house of Pooh
ready with toilet trees
to vend off voodoo
intending to remain forthright to
finish explaining courtesy
regarding resultant google Moo
choe reputable homepage
search query... hallooo
thankfully helped rescue
me bogged down in Waterloo
curious about... any clue?
Yepper, what sound
do crickets make?
plus other esoteric tidbits to slake
thirst for aspiring entomologist
(may even know gossip where ache
key breaky hearts quake
'bout Josh and Drake)
yielded plethora web newpages
mainly concerning former,
whereat bottom cricket
wing covered teeth-
like ridges make
rough surface, and upper surface
of infinitesimal gliding anatomical feature
functions like scraper, hence rubbing
respective parts together doth create
chirping (“stridulating") soundcloud.
From back streets, alleys and hedgerows they came,
all sorts of people with children and dogs
filling the Chapel like a hall of fame;
the smell in the air had a whiff of bogs.
The best beggar in Worcester, that was Jack
a man of the street to be laid to rest,
no family to grieve, no mourners in black.
Some he had cheated, others could attest
they had learned from him street craft to survive,
receiving and sharing what came their way.
I read from St Luke how all turned aside
of those invited to the feast that day.
I gave them a welcome in Jesus' name
for coming to share the Jack that they knew.
It wasn't a banquet, but all the same
we gathered at the grave to ballyhoo.
A tipsy guy struggled to announce
he was known to them all as Steady Jack.
"Steady as you go!" his comrades pronounced.
A young Rastafarian kept us on track
with a wistful melody on his flute,
gathered for the committal packed in close.
Many an improvised personal tribute
was tossed into the grave for Jack's repose:
besides clods of soil a can of Guinness,
a bottle upended, several butt ends,
a home made wreath dropped in as a witness
limp but sincere to Jack's coffin descends.
To pay its respects an old dog came forward,
peered in, then curled up on a grave nearby.
Once the hole was filled and Jack was covered
expletives were uttered to satisfy
feelings deep within. Then dancing began
with bongo drums which continued till dusk.
Standing aside with much to understand
as cemetery staff completed their task,
I found respectful silence was broken
by fresh conversation of what we'd seen,
rituals of death uncommonly potent
shared and displayed with nothing routine.
With no ballyhoo as the clock struck two
In a cottage near the edge of town
A maiden there graced with savoir faire
In a flash shot her lover down
A wiley gent from the county Kent
Known for his shameful reputation
Broke the maiden's heart when he chose to part
For another lass in desperation
The constable Green arrived at the scene
The smoking gun still in her hand
Had so many clues it made all the news
And drew attention throughout the land
With jury cast the trial ended fast
Then the judge made a public decree
This maiden there graced with savoir faire
Charged with murder in the first degree
Standing proud amidst the village crowd
Where she could hear their voices roar
Wouldn't bow in fear or shed a tear
When they led her to the gallows floor
Her neck would snap as the as they sprung the trap
All angels wept in Heaven above
With her final breath before put to death
I'm glad to die in the name of love
it is a quiet afternoon
the mind unspooling
into lethargy
post prandial serenity lapping
at peaceful shores
now easing my way
into the garden
dead-head roses
prune the over eager
feeling well
in a loosely-strung way
my dog
threads my legs
playfully
perhaps wanting to make me tip
off balance
but I am centered
the minor antics
of the too energetic
only a buzzing distraction
but now the hound
is barking and chasing a squirrel
kicking up flustered clusters
of sparrows
doors slam and neighbors yell
there’s a ballyhoo in the backyard
I turn to exit the scene
not even trying
to stay damn well calm
Our sons play trumpet, saxophone,
the piccolo and bass trombone.
Horns blast and blare like Gatling guns;
a sound-proof basement makes it fun.
Horns blast and blare
Horns blast and blare
from morn till night without the sun.
And when the band performs to task
some parent never fails to ask
How do you stand the ballyhoo -
of practice sessions – how do you...
How do you stand?
How do you stand?
Acoustic secret called Green Glue.
written July 3, 2014, which is my birthday
entered in Laura Loo's Poem Written on Your Birthday contest
a form called brain strain refrain created by Allen Emery,
specs can be found at:
http://poetscollective.org/poetryforms/?p=2263
“How-do-you-do?” the seminal leaves of Autumn wave.
“When would you like to fly away?” prickles the gust.
Maternal-oak holds on tight as one birdy takes flight.
The gust will have none of this ballyhoo, knowing
what he must do, calls for fingernails-on-chalkboard rain,
for the bad-wolf-wind, for lightning, insane.
“Toodle-loo,” says each spiderling-leaf, parachuting to earth.
They make such a scene; whirligig and wandering,
each drenched in colloquial colors, memorable, forsaken.
Each one in turn catches a potential eye even as it lands
in puddles, whirling and twirling, a final splash. They mourn
as blends of orange, yellow and red bleed into the stream.
Undignified, decomposing, going under, all poetry spent,
dwarfing and drifting; washed away down the drain.
Spring regeneration haphazardly avoids loose-leaf goosebumps.