Long Banter Poems
Long Banter Poems. Below are the most popular long Banter by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Banter poems by poem length and keyword.
When Coventry was cowed, it got Godiva.
The French were frantic, so God sent them Joan,
and Stanley showed up just when Livingstone
required him. Enter left, a doughty diver!
What wasn’t needed was a fancy talker,
back-slapping, banter-cracking, glib buffoon.
This called for someone steady, silent, hewn
from granite And his name was William Walker.
The work was not too tricky, in itself.
One man alone could cut away the wood
(but under water, mind you). Not for pelf
(the word exists – go look it up!), nor yet
for fame, but just because somebody should,
bold Walker took it on. We’re in his debt.
He was a non-talking man, floating around, watching, smiling at me, winking sometimes.
He waited on me hand and foot, bringing delicious ethnic dishes to me on a regular basis,
Never ruining the atmosphere or the mystique by talking or annoying me in any way.
He was my own silent hero, and although I was curious, we went on like this for years.
A mutual comfortableness settled on us, my tall dark handsome stranger and I.
People invited me to parties, where I could meet someone, having no idea I already had.
When they dropped in unexpectedly, at first I would glance around, worried.
But I soon realized they could not see my spirit man, he belonged to me, and me alone.
At night he came to me in my dreams, and we did unspeakable things to each other, wonderful things.
Sighing and smiling, and talking to each other in the banter of lovers in a whispery, confidential way.
He satisfied me like no other person ever had, I was complete now, in the best of best relationships.
The rest of the world can have their humans, and their sorrow, but I am completely satisfied, thank you.
Small gauge large sound
could be trivia profound
Stations and shunters
red lights for the punters
Small member large auto
mobile cars pars pro toto
In silly banter we trust
French letters a must
But remember the other
Freud had a mother
In Victorian Vienna he toiled
his thoughts rather soiled
In mind he bonked on the couch
dirty old man sought to debauch
Those wicked rationalizations
what a treat for all nations
Kill thy father bonk thy pother
plenty of perversity to smother
So deliriously stupid it seems
it is all in all in those dreams
Yet morbid mortality calls
when the man stumbles and falls
He walked a tight sleezy rope
cocaine was his grand old dope
When the wicked go mad
it culminates bad and sad
High volume tiny shackles
still nonsense’s trifle crackles
All quiet again at the libido check out
Sigmund is dead long live the doubt
The plain is fuzzing with the ingress racing.
Predicted rain is heard in the birds singing.
Sow your seed when the moon tells its time.
Hear the tales close to the fire; it's sublime.
Contemplate the skies for the hawks cry.
Focus on the breeze and the moonlit sky.
The noble spirit exudes an altered tone.
To heed of the rite of the elder, not atone.
The misery of grievousness is heinous.
I am fated, that I could carry forward.
There's no growth from the coldness.
The stable grace cannot stem rearward.
For a dismal exhale to seek for reeling.
Hear the beat and banter with moving.
5TH PLACE CONTEST WINNER
Written: April 10, 2022
A BRIAN STRAND PREMIERE CHOICE Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Brian Strand
By-lanes of my mind
When I write, its verbose;
When I don’t, I am short of words;
Write with flair and respect, brevity is a gift;
They remind me as my jargon filled words they dissect.
All this is internalised,
The lips quiver, pen shakes in hands that shiver,
Prove it, prove you’re not redundant,
I don’t care, even though I know,
I announce with a reluctance,
Accusations of plagiarism, lack of character
Clash with inspirations and new ideas
In the by-lanes of my mind.
Be hard-working, be ambitious, be selfish,
Go easy, nice &slow, be selfless & kind,
Drop a ‘why’, before you’re like this,
And watch a dance of doubts take place
On a pile of now rotting, what was once innocent bliss
In all of this, clarity I must find
In the by-lanes of my mind.
Losing to a six-inch screen,
What do you mean?
What they think is an addiction,
Started as an interest or just a connection,
Last I remembered, they assigned a task,
Quickly build something was their ask,
Obscure, DIY, mundane
Genuine stuff that wears no mask
Not efficiency driven factory line production,
Effervescent, slow burning, WIPs, one to one banter
Through my perceived small screen addiction,
I promote everyday connection.
Ideas are trivial,
Your words a bore,
In exchange for truckloads of attention,
That we unloaded upon your door,
You must give more.
You put the cart before the horse;
In delivering this undeserved fame, is what I said;
Now, a talent, an assembly line of heroics I must find;
This is the thought racing through the by-lanes of my mind.
Plucky, we see the pond
With dervish eyes we bond
Dive in the great beyond
And ooh la la
He thinks she’s quite a dish
Handsome’s her one true wish
Into the sheets they swish
With great oompah
Like thrashing out of sea
Steamy fish feel so free
As who they’re meant to be
Waves wild hoopla
Of two young shades of gray
Whipped up, the seas obey
Oui! Oui! Risqué-parlez*
Midlife’s booya!
The calming of the deep
Married love never cheap
Embraced hearts fall asleep
After hoo-ha
3/15/2018
Mick Talbot’s Violette Poetry Contest
*What’s love without a little French ;)
Pronounced: wee wee risk-ay par-lay
Oui - Yes
Risqué - verging on impropriety or indecency (bedroom banter)
Parlez - Speak
Booya - urban dictionary: hell, yeah
Form:
(which above frolicsome gambit I mastered)
After mine wife
asks for this, that
or something else rife
with intent to provide barrel of laughs,
(likened to barrel of monkeys)
yours truly crafts
description how we share mirth
validating how our respective worth
matters each to the other acting childlike
to stave off altercations
that might come down figurative pike
worst case scenario whereby I strike
mine steadfast fine
(prairie home) companion.
Neither rules nor regulations exist
to our made up silly game
whereby whenever
one of us knowingly reaches out
to latch hold of desired item
specified by name,
the other person feigns to hand over
then pulls back same
alluded to object
held aloft (think
non verbal teasing banter)
said motions sustained
moments before until...
participant/ recipient
(trying in vain to grab
their coveted cherished
jackknifed prized possession)
becomes angry as raging bull.
Ofttimes when I pretend to surrender
that specific something sought after
by her royal highness prefers advanced version,
she doth lapse into her guttural patois,
which scrambled, throttled, and vocalized
(back of the throat utterances)
metrically syncopated
(couching unspoken) unclear clues
her primal wordless request
vaguely analogous
to decipher cryptograms,
whereby, I learned to look for patterns.
Yesteryear selective pastimes
whiling away hours
included many a cognitively
challenging endeavors
comprising decoding enigmatic
intriguing looking English language riddles
located within entertainment section
of The Philadelphia Inquirer
no I could never solve sudoku,
but eldest daughter (Eden Liat -
yea "star student" who matriculated
and graduated summa cum laude
courtesy University of Pennsylvania
breezed thru those logic-based,
combinatorial number-placement puzzle.
How bland a marriage devoid of non
establishmentarian activities, none
of which include physical intimacy,
cuz me libido indeed went deep south
linkedin with half dozen plus medications
yours truly readily swallows
prescribed medication to alleviate
mental health issues such as:
anxiety, obsessive compulsive behavior,
palmar hyperhidrosis,
mild depression et alia.
The Point of no Return
It all started innocently enough,
casual conversation. Just the usual banter at the coffee station.
A couple of co-workers teasing each other. He liked her laugh. If he was honest, her yellow blouse with pearl buttons was a special treat. The top button was undone and the fabric draped over her breasts in the most delightful way.
Sam thought back to an old Seinfeld episode. Something about breasts being like an eclipse, you shouldn’t stare directly at them. Oops, that ship had sailed. When his gaze returned to her blue eyes, she gave him a knowing look. In that instant he blushed. She touched his arm, smiled and said “Why don’t we go for lunch today? I know a nice place a few blocks from my apartment.” At that moment Sam knew he was at the point of no return. Damn it was good to be a young single guy in New York City.
For point of no return contest.
The American Library Association
implores cognoscenti tubby alert
for impersonators, who
call themselves Ernie and Bert
took a page from Sesame Street Playbook
oft times accompanied
by a Soundcloud of dirt,
boot none other then Pigpen,
(who worked for Peanuts),
and pay-dirt, though
dismissed, cuz he did not exert
true grit, plus more seriously scandalous
sordid details suppressed kept from press,
(which scurrilous breach of conduct)
involved said scallywag
violating more than flirt
discovered in prurient compromised activity,
where his skin flute encircled,
with an ambrosia girt
transgressions possibly affected
public television station benefactors,
and sterling reputation of bottom line, nor hurt
locker talk (albeit via exaggerated mainly
to make a profit) sounding proper
sanctimonious Cliff (hanging) notes,
asper faux expected by
a "FAKE" trumpeting prophet,
sans motley crue comic
stripped of more'n
motion picture PG ratings,
hence future lurid, graphic,
banal, ampersand
(&) dressing room banter
muted, disallowed, and banned
so storied characters birthed by Charles Shulz,
(who passed away prior to near canned
aforementioned indiscretion debacle)
returning amidst fanfare hoopla
much as possible grand
jour "Making Peanuts Great Again" hand
diddly restoring full metal paperback jacketed
glory and apple pie order land
ding rebirth of cherished popular iconic
easy to digest bookworm feed
which unexpectedly, inadvertently,
and horrifyingly
brewed ferocious breed
on par with the Alaskan Bull Worm,
whereat armed guards
strategically stationed
at libraries entrances indeed
aware voracious young readers,
would pay no heed
to any obstacle, and such unstoppable
ravishing knowledge
hungry kids did exceed
capacity security details dashed away,
faster then Clifford
the big red dog re: oh speed
wagon in toto (oz suppose)
to escape paginated bound woes,
but especially to flee bozos
not tubby confused with Bezos -
(the richest cat on planet Earth),
whose cashiered spigot flows
née gushes without any need to faucet.
My country is the beautiful sun
My country is not the hard winter
My country is an often green Eden
Always languid and tropical at dawn.
It’s a country where the crowing of roosters
Revives everybody every morning
It’s a country furnished with filthy slush and rocks
Where nature is a vast and miserable garden.
It's a country full of horrid stories
Where slaves and decent people are revolted
Against greedy settlers and bloody buccaneers
It’s where only macabre memories exist.
In this awful and morose atmosphere
Where I banter all that is negative
I will build positive monuments
I will dream and recite fables.
My country is the moonlight
Which gives hope and strength to fight
Against masked and zombified
Bogeymen. Oh! God, I hold no grudges.
My country is the ever positive imagination
Presently, I don't want to denounce anyone
However, I will silence the chiming bells
Oh! It's sad to see my people on the exodus
Near the evacuative shores.
P.S. Gilles Vigneault, this poem is
For you and our people.
Copyright © January 2023, Hébert Logerie, All rights reserved
Hébert Logerie is the author of several collections of poetry.