Long Bo Poems
Long Bo Poems. Below are the most popular long Bo by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Bo poems by poem length and keyword.
There is, in the Los Angeles area, a well-known brand of milk, called Alta Dena. Near also,
is the city named Alta Dena, and my grandson lives there. I asked him if he had seen the dairy there, and he told me that it does not exist. I then asked him if he had seen herds of milk cattle there and he said that he had not, and doubted that there were any. Of course I wondered why the milk had such a name, and jokingly asked him to look for at least one cow in the city, since it was well built-up, and there were no obvious open pastures at all. I told him that we could only conclude that it this had to b a very famous and rare cow that could supply all the milk needed by a large urban dairy, and thus must be insured, protected from the idle public, and secreted in some private home where she would not be disturbed. The whole story and speculation grew into a riotous family "search" for this wondrous animal. I, of course, ask my grandson each week when I see him, for a progress report on the search. Finally, I have decided to turn it into a poem:
A Search Continues
Something very hush-hush is going on
and Alta Dena folk aren't going to tell.
All cowdom secreted within its bovine lair
yet Bo would stare contentedly at us
with no incursive moo directed at the hellish
vine that she must eat, in lieu of meadow grass.
That ever-present cud must still
be masticated; yea, her celebrated udder
must be filled.
Yet none admit to having sighted her.
Beastiana though she be, no Altadenian
will dare so much as low on her behalf,
no bull, Eden-bound, is ready to exchange
his bold, testicular desire
to service mewling ruminants
who merely run away.
Nay, uncowed are they, though cowed they be,
and cowards not--and if you do not see
their wisdom, chalk it up to power,
Bo's mammary magnificence, so easily
in jeopardy before a single squeeze,
not of a nipple but a trigger
thus applied, and speeding out of sight.
Challenge, indeed, our quest to find
this noble and prolific queen
who dominates with graceful quietude
her milky empire slurping quite
without a care, lush liquid destined
not to slosh within her, rather
in those tumescent tummies
ever crying out for more.
Would I betray them for a share?
Of course. Away with those content
to sour the milk of human kindness
with deception. Let the search go on!
~
I think I must be seeing things
Before me stand the four of kings,
They shuffle when the Bishop brings
Annette upon nine raven wings
And Beanie rides a sea serpent
And wonders where the yellow went;
I go to pay the next day’s rent,
Where have they taken my new tent?
The bandstand kids look like Dick Clark,
Turn on the lights, I’m in the dark,
I’m standing in Grand Central Park,
A worm has caught a purple lark
And Kookie has run out of combs
So rents out rooms in old maid’s homes,
He has B.O. where ere he roams
So buys some spray and sells his tomes,
To your friend Ralph, yes you know who,
The one who should be in a zoo;
He sells used cars upon the tube
To each and every simple boob
And if he gives you stomach ache
Then Alkaseltzer’s what you take
And Bufferin too if you’re a rake,
Thus hath the Johnny Carson spake
Do I need a cigarette?
A camel says before me yet
‘yes, Luckys is the brand to get,
Be a he man, don’t you fret’
‘there must be worser ways to die
So buy brand X, give it a try’;
Just then another bird walks up
And asks me what I feed my pup
Then puts a nickel in my cup
And tells me I am full of crup
Of where I am, I’m unaware;
Why are the people all so square?
Who is standing over there?
He says he’s here to take my fare
But I’m not going anywhere,
Besides I feel my pockets bare
‘Well then I guess you must have paid’
At this I start to get afraid,
I think my mind will start to fade,
Then Hogen’s Heros make a raid,
Upon my sensibilities
And now it’s clear why each eye sees
So many people climbing trees;
It aint because of hungry fleas
As Tarzan swings upon a rope
I find I start to give up hope;
Jack Webb has started smoking dope
So now the crooks no longer mope
And Perry Mason kicks a judge
But finds the law will never budge
Unless big business gives a nudge
To Popeye selling ice cream fudge
At this I really have to rush
To our old john so I can flush
So far away this vacant mush
Before my teeth I start to brush
Then Josephine comes to my view
And says ‘I want to talk to you
Have you scrubbed your sink anew?
Your mop I think needs some shampoo’
I said ‘I think you are the plumber
And no one else was ever dumber
You’ve put me on another bummer’
My feelings start to get much number
continued in part 2>
A profession that's not the norm.
It borders on the absurd.
In the mountains and down the hollers,
powerful engines could be heard.
I decided to try something new.
Put my driving skills to the test.
Driving from Harlan County to Asheville,
It didn't end well, you might have guessed.
The city fathers got together,
figuring how to make it all work.
Everyone involved in this illegal trade,
from the mayor to the town clerk.
The hillbillies brew the dew.
Most of it safe, some burns red.
Uncle Jessie tried it once.
His eyes rolled back and he dropped dead.
Billie Ray had a hot rod '50 Ford.
Was a race car, lost more than it won.
We popped the trunk, man it was huge.
Perfect for the nightly Asheville run.
In the trunk was a steel tank.
Loaded hooch made the car ride low.
Truck springs took care of the problem.
Now the truck no longer hauls cargo.
Beneath the rear bumper were nozzles.
A switch inside made the oil flow.
When a revenuer was chasing you,
in the rearview, was quite the show.
I always wanted to drive.
Thought this life would be exciting.
Told to keep away from this game.
It's dangerous hauling white lightning.
Blazing out of Harlan County.
At first, it went fairly smooth.
Problems I planned for didn't happen.
I got settled into a groove.
Bo Duke, he would've been proud,
when I jumped the gap at Cumberland.
Crossed the stream at Maynardville.
The engine died, it's not going as planned.
I finally got it restarted.
Pretended I was driving the Grand Prix.
Ahead, I saw the tail lights of the g-man.
Oh, snap! they're supposed to be chasing me!
I pulled off the exit for Knoxville.
Checked the map, found Kingston Pike.
I heard this in a song before.
Outside of Bearden, they were planning to strike.
Kept going in spite of the tune.
There they were, waiting to spring.
Blocking the road, no way to get by,
I lost control, spun into this big electrical thing.
The car quickly caught fire.
The door was jammed, options were few.
It was like an atom bomb going off,
when the flames caught the Mountain Dew.
The next night, my funeral was held.
Played a song about some bird in a tree.
The car lights, they stretched for miles.
This life I guess was not for me.
To me, a Man-child is an adult male who acts like a child: immature, lazy, unkempt, idiotic, silly, annoying etc. Usually it is someone you either work with or live with. This poem is a nod to the poem Monday's child is fair of face, but with a twist.
Monday's Man-child is a total disgrace
(A drunken stupor with open arms he will embrace)
Tuesday's Man-child got a gob full of mace
(he tried it on with the wrong pretty face)
Wednesday's Man-child has to go and get his Giro
(cos his bank balance is now showing a big fat zero)
Thursday's Man-child is feeling kinda low
(so he stays in bed stinking of tabs and B.O.)
Friday's Man-child is all about chilling
(a lads' night in where zero f@cks are given)
Saturday's Man-child is off to the footy - 3 points he's a wishing
(then off to the pier for a couple hours of fishing)
And the Man-child heads back to the pub on Sunday
(A few beers and games of pool he'll play)
A Man-child's week isn't very nice
(It's fair to say it's hardly one to suffice)
It might just be he's in a rut - with a lack of support or understanding.
(He's in a repetitive cycle; a tornado that keeps on turning)
One week to the next, it's the same old routine
(It's a shout for help - one that remains unseen)
Salvation came just as he was to give up all hope,
(A merry band of guys, who help each other to cope)
For Man-child now, a Monday is one to look forward to
(He knows he can speak his mind as do all the other guys do)
Man-child goes to Andy's Man Club, and this decision was the best
(Cos now he shares a positive or anything to get off his chest)
this sets him up for the week ahead, last week's woes now a line in the sand
(Andy Roberts, your story has saved hundreds across England, Wales and Scotland)
So if you see Man-child in yourself too, and you don't know what to do
(get yourself to your local AMC, and be part of a special kinda crew).
The original poem is below:
Monday's child is fair of face.
Tuesday's child is full of grace.
Wednesday's child is full of woe,
Thursday's child has far to go.
Friday's child is loving and giving,
Saturday's child works hard for a living.
And the child born on the Sabbath day
Is bonny and blithe, good and gay.
Little Bo-Peep adored playing hide and seek, hence the fond nickname;
Just as hued rainbow is named for its dazzle, so radiant over every lane!
Bo-Peep was eight, and lived on a farm. She had various loves and joys.
Her world was full of magic and make believe, and she had sparkly toys.
But Bo-Peep loved more than anything, tending peaceful, fleecy sheep,
A task she'd only recently started. She loved the gamboling and leaps!
Friends Frances and Faye flew kites with Bo-Peep, in berry colors, deep;
And loved folk dancing at sunset flame, under the fuchsia sky mystique.
Familiar February had fallen fast, and yielded to fresh, fragrant flowers,
In leap years of fevered, family visits, when green bared mystic powers.
Bo-Peep lived in the house of enigma, ever hailing moments unfamiliar,
When moon and sun played hide and seek, as time turnt gold and silver.
Red robins roamed rouge, dusk skies, near the royal, Ranunculus Road;
And buttercups really brightened the rosy route, where breezes blowed.
Nature knew nothing but budding, when neighbors visited the sunlit days,
In a nectarine season of noble lives, when they followed the golden rays.
Crimson bellied birds faced ruby sunset, raining its beams like cherries;
And 'lady of the night' orchids reveled in moonlight, observed by fairies!
Elegant orchids were dressed up and dancing, along hot streets of gold,
When 'blanket flowers' draped stuff with color, prettying the dull and old.
One day Bo-Peep got lost in a daydream, as the frisky lambs wandered.
She abruptly realized they'd all gone! Like seconds eternity squandered.
No bleating or baas could be heard, and there was no sound near or far;
For, not even pink robin was heard in that moment-in a stillness bizarre!
After searching the farm in vain, Bo-Peep confessed it all to her parents,
Who were calm, wise to ways of sheep; as diamonds ken facet moments.
'Little Bo-Peep has lost her sheep,
And can't tell where to find them;
Leave them alone, And they'll come home,
Wagging their tails behind them.'
Everything was coming up roses by dawn, like burgundy sun and blooms;
And the lambs had all returned, like spring green, emerging from its tomb.
Third level CCTV audio recordings
of the last occupants illegally departing the
quasi-safe, Area 4, Sector 9 quarantine zone
— Seventh vol. of the Ghetto Chronicles
We hate to see you all go,
good company is hard to keep these days
Time is marked as being irrelevant here,
idle eyes patrolling
each iron-bar clad window
The klaxon sirens blaring outside,
gives an aural stench
As motion metal beasts come to
an abrupt screech
Slumping sound of a sickly thud
Concrete ground flowing with blood ...
a poverty-racked body: raggedly, last gasp breathing,
has just treadmark died
And the ghetto violence ever abides
We of the pavement sweeping, creeping crowd
have seen this snuff scene a-many times
Abandoned hopes ...
barely living,
desperately cope in deserted buildings
Surrounded by disease and dope,
provides a-plenty self-inflicted killings
Come inside this iron-bar jungle cage,
and feel the rage
of these walking dead lions
Their lionesses and cubs constantly crying
Sadly, the ghetto violence steadily abides
We of the chittering, unclean-up crew
have tragically seen
the mane numbers a-dwindle to a few
Our antennae eyes
are always patrolling
every crumb-laden floor and creaky locked door
We would love if you last oomans could stay —
Disregard the filth
and diseased surroundings
It ain’t that bad,
once your settled mind
don’t ever troublesome ask
why
you in this pestilent predicament
in the first place
Help that was forthcoming,
just got ambulance carried away
Aw, my bad ...
I didn’t know that was yo’ adopted Uncle
But, Sam-bo
shouldn’t been talking back too loud
to the Po-po Five-O
Oh man, all of you be a-packing yo’ bags too
This rat-infested dump gon be cupboard empty
without all of you Good Timey yahoos,
drinking and singing those darkie blues
Alright ... since you put it that way,
saying how’s you all can’t no longer stay
Before you go,
will you do me and my partners —
Us cockroaches,
bed bugs lice and mice,
a favor, please
‘Preciate it, if you turn off the lights ...
before you leave
Doctors getting exposed like popes,
Caught pulling the rope a dope,
Falling down the entropic slope,
No integrity - can't cope,
Seats of power to dethrone,
Why don't y'all extradite your own?
If ya catch a sleeper near ya,
Take that tommy peeper,
To the nearest theatre,
And expose that creature,
Its the latest greatest feature,
In reality media,
Put it on wikipedia,
We like, "Dawg, we hear ya!"
Stuff ain't black and white,
So let's punk these zebras,
Walkin' 'round like libras,
How 'bout we take their medicine,
To debilitate libidos,
Of ghouls in tuxedos,
Friggin' neato,
Now let's stop the peep show.
We gon' Murder, lazy suckers in art,
Not in the streets, are you a stinking sweet tart?
Be smart, avoid Agents Provocateurs,
Lessons learned from disturbed dealings with nerds,
I'm jealous of every one of you free punks,
Livin' lux' cuz you learned math and redux,
Methodology, just watchin' the flux,
Making rational decisions and earning big bucks,
Sucks to me be me cuz I'm a sensitive nut,
Driving the short bus right into a rut,
I once thought I was a cut above the rest,
Perhaps blessed,
But when putting faith to the test,
I found a lot of hex, and now maybe I'm vexed,
I realized my faith wasn't in myself,
It was in the rest,
So I went on a quest to discover why I felt,
And my feelings lead me straight to hell.
OMJeepers creepers,
Would ya get a load of these sheepish creatures?
Could ya set a tone of leaner demeanor?
Should ya live by the vote of some evil geezers?
I'm gettin' at the throat of some evil deeds,
I'm pullin' out weeds like, "who planted these?"
Some GMO seeds, like, "do we really need these?"
These things we see have an invisible leash,
I breath, I eat, I sleep, I compete,
I discriminate based on character for real,
No Little Bo Peep gon' convince me,
That skin means stink,
Look sir, I'm free,
To use intuition to see into you,
Sleuthin' through the politics that consume you,
Communistic who's who protruding through all the doo-doo,
You know this, Excentrix is super glue sticky dude.
upon waking from a splendid plunge
into the depths of deep dreamy restful sleep
anchors away set adrift this body electric,
which succombed instantaneously
(without counting sheep)
nor joining the make belive rank and file world
with the likes of little bo peep
an immediate notion arose
to latch onto and ignore
this most delightful, flight of fancy deed
(not dirty nor done dirt cheap),
but a natural function
one cannot overdose nor excede
the USDA quotidian requirement,
where cares and concerns
of an uncertain world freed
yet an asolute bare necessity for stayin' alive
plus richly textured unrivaled vista devoid of greed
additionally cost and gluten free, NON GMO,
zero caloric effortless need
(words of caution to take seriously to heart),
and note that if one doth not yield, but sure to read
the small print affixed like a label each mind
forcing to squeeze out every metaphorical
drop of open eyed juice
perhaps resorting to meth or speed
that silent slurred speech, physical lashing,
head dropping fatique
will invite Halloween aparitions, delusions,
grand hallucinations, et cetera
as if one smoked wacky weed
the forces of anatomical and physiological
heft will take charge ahoy
and blast at top notch nautical surge,
will wrest control against blistering,
festering against withering heights
delivering balms away at feeble attempts
to retain losing battle to remain alert oh boy
no matter how much effort summoned,
(even feigning wakefulness as a decoy)
the trappings of oblivion
i.e. sinking into profound dreamland,
whether an individual ascribes to be Jew or goy
which Maxwell House maxim
“the key to better relationships may be more sleep”
no mortal ought to take lightly,
but pay heed lest the grim reaper doth creep
stealthily and scythe lent lee steal
a haggard skiff of flesh and bone
whereat corporeal essence no more
will there be for the soul to keep.
For P.D's "Going Haiku Crazy" Contest
How Many?
going to St. Ives
met folks on that smelly bus
more than I could count
Just Sleep Walking?
Wee Willy Winky
caught outside a boy’s window
in a night garment
Got Wool?
naked in the lane
three bags-full of wool sheared off
baa baa black sheep fleeced
She Didn’t Know What to Do!
Kids’ cries from inside -
outside an old woman’s shoe
child welfare people
Clean Your Plate!
Licking their plates clean
Jack Sprat and wife do their part. . .
kids starve in China
The Treacherous Hill
pail of spilled water
Jill’s body sprawled over Jack’s
one big bloody mess
What a Ding Dong
good deed for the day
boy scout Tommy Stout by well. . .
scratches on his arm
Not Even a Bone
old Mother Hubbard
Social Security cut
dog needs a new home
Yellow Georgie
victims of Porgie
confront him in the playground
his true color shows
The Original Blonde
Bo peep loses sheep
birth of a new tradition. . .
blonde jokes being told
The Schemer
some spilled curds and whey
spider near a fallen chair
supping happily
Making the Best. . .
Humpty takes a spill
the whole army can’t fix him
omelets for lunch
Baby Catches On
the church and steeple
and now you show me people?
those are just fingers!
They Say He Couldn’t Keep Her!
gossip in the town
pumpkin shell big as a house. .
where is Peter’s wife?
Bye, Hushed Baby
the sound of wind’s rush
baby’s cries abruptly hushed
broken branch on ground
*I'm choosing this series of haiku for several reasons.
First, it's the only post I made named "Twisted" so it
is an obvious choice. Second, I do have other poems
I consider a bit twisted, but, I simply cannot
remember the titles of some of these really old poems
to look for them. Finally, this series was inspired by
a long ago contest of PD's in which I got the idea
to take nursery rhymes and twist them, and so
I'm reviving this series which can no longer be
viewed by anybody here unless it's in a contest!
TRUMP SMELLS B.O.
TRUMP SMELLS B.O.
BUST UP THE BEAT TO INTRODUCE IT'S TEMPO
GOT ME PLACES TO GO
SILENCE IS GOLDEN GOT BLOOD THAT"S UNFOLDING
SITS IN HIS IVORY TOWER ENGAGED IN THE WALL WHILE HE SITS IN HIS IVORY TOWER
TRUMP SMELLS B.O.
I know years to know used to being with your history
eager long to achieve
needs to take a nice hot shower
going down to the wire...,
got choices with the most chances highway glances
glad he switch his Depends tyed beauty within,
another one bites the dust with the whole world in a rush
doing cart wheels out in the mood a sought of time to renew
Trump Smells B.O. which way should we go ?
some are in a trance
a given chance at any romance
Pac sought love through concrete
on again out again cry for relief
Can We Talk ?
hit a sister mister said to high HITLER,
SONG REMAINS THE SAME SOUGHT EVEN SHADE
LOVE FAXED IN WHERE IT IS WE DEPEND
YOU GOT TO KNOW WHERE YOU ARE iNSTEAD YOU HIDE LIKE ROSANNE BARR
NEEDS TO STOP BY INSTEAD OF GETTING HIGH
VAPE
with heightened fresh tender moments like these drift away to the sea...
suffering long in an empty room my pain drifts in illusive rights become pure
day by day we hear the sound of a lonely owl out in desperation my stomack leaks
cheer up good cousin as the thoughts simmer again back from beyond cracking,
this is enough of a good spot gross way back sat the owl in fact through radio
Trump Smells B.O. button down the captors embrace the hellos
I'm bust out the beat to increase the tempo...,
Silently in the dreams eating delicious ice cream,
I maybe a man of all mans,
P.U.
in the port of storm we call commercial radiating plugged in seperation,
fine darling pillars the growth of here after old man sit by the log cabin
at night he would take a pee outside his window taking heed to nature's dream
the owl would suddenly draw empty nothing but framed silence in togetherness
our cameras freshly made eating potato dumplings...
I aim human fresh under my wings,
look to the sun to help you get by...