Long Bopped Poems
Long Bopped Poems. Below are the most popular long Bopped by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Bopped poems by poem length and keyword.
Yes, I must confess that I did that ish…
I watched as he crawled across the place
The bug-a-boo had the nerve to try and touch my face
With shillelagh in tow, I just knew he had to go!
I caught the angle where his many eyes couldn’t see
Yes, I was determined this would be the last time he’d bug me,
I’d ask for a stay of execution but what could I say
In this big ole bug-eyed world I was as guilty as…. Hey
Wait a minute; call for my chef, tell him to send everything on the menu
And tell him to make it a grand table setting fit for two,
Send me the best bubbly non-alcoholic of course
And two large fruit pies big enough to choke a horse.
Maybe even throw in some chocolate mousse.
Now, Warden Wilner and Goober--ner Fairhaven please be seated and feast
And listen to my story whilst you grease won’t you please.
You see, I was sitting watching a game with my dear friend cricket,
When the lord of the flies kept a buzzing in my ear ~
Obnoxious words I just could not bear to hear.
Yes, I confess his dialogue was quite wicked!
I first opened the door and bade him kindly to go,
But then he decided to put on a show…
I opened the window and he still would not budge,
I thought to myself what’s wrong with this bug!
Then he bit me, Oh it was on I would have rather he’d tried to hit me…
It was a crime of passion truly I tell you both
I bopped him with one swift yet mighty stroke…
Truly, I do not mean to offend, but that bite hurt so bad I hit ‘im again …!
I am not one to bribe, however I want out of this mess and that’s no jive!
Well, after much deliberation, such fine conversation and a fantastic meal
The Goober—ner Fairhaven and Warden Wilner shook hands and sealed the deal,
I’d be free before the morning ink on the parchment could dry
This knowledge was enough to make a poor soul cry…
Instead I got down on my knees and gave thanks for such an act
Could have found me on my way to being quite dead; Yes, I confess I did that ish!
Is dance a metaphor for sex?
You’d think so if you knew my ex
(at least the barflies all believe
she’s hoarding something up her sleeve).
But what makes people want to dance?
An aural frenzy? True romance?
Would Hamlet, Shylock or Macbeth
ever dance themselves to death?
Strasbourg is the kind of town
that’s unassuming, buttoned down.
These people don’t let down their hair:
rarely reckless, somewhat square.
The year before a reign began
(that’s Charles the Fifth – the Habsburg man):
to celebrate Saint Vitus’ Day
a Strasbourg woman’s new ballet
was launched in Rue des Hallebardes
(a strange event in all regards).
Right outside her Strasbourg home,
a stone’s throw from Strassburgerdom,
one Frau Follea hit the street
(and man, that chick could move her feet!)
We don’t know what her motive was:
perhaps she did it ‘just because’.
Did she deserve the looney bin?
No - other folks were joining in!
With twisting torsos, poor and posh,
the city streets were soon awash.
Without the need for record player,
the followers of Frau Follea
bopped and boogied through the night,
as hot as Rhineland anthracite.
Did scruples sting at morning mist?
Did conscience prick them to desist?
Did people halt their hellish dance?
Not one mosher! Not a chance!
On they conga’d, rocked and rolled,
oblivious to heat or cold.
More Alsace dusks, forever amber,
reverberated to their samba.
The local grapes are full and juicy:
the people step a mean watusi.
There’s such a thing as civic pride,
but this lot cha-cha’d till they died!
Housewife, beggar, baker, barber
were parties to the danse macabre.
Was their motive pleasure? Fear?
Penance? Sydenham’s Chorea?
The reason for the quick-quick-slow
I don’t suppose we’ll ever know.
We've been given three months to leave
- How on earth will it be possible to pack
Sixty years of family, what we've achieved
Sentimental objects we can't claim back
Assured the kids we're more than capable
Taking care of daily tasks, we easily manage
- Dylan told me the house looks disgraceful
- Hazardous, tripping might cause us damage
Jean is cleaning the living room, uptight
Lathered over what we'll have to discard
I assure her, love, we're gonna be alright
We'll muck through, darl, I know it's hard
Thing about us is, life's been a struggle
Despite us marrying in post war prosper
Had four kids, health problems to juggle
- now it's every second day at the doctor
The hip's twinging pretty bad, old tin shed
has seen better days, musty air greets me
- Two hours of digging, damn me dead..!
Dusty black box pops up, spot to play CDs
Hurry my haul into my dusting flustered wife
Jean, my sweet, amazing - this just appeared
Haven't had stereo in years, old one hit strife
My love's soft face shon suddenly with tears
Reminiscing with our records, compact discs
Urge took me to embrace her, spin, lurch about
Hip flexors maneuvering, did mere music assist?
Knees improved hugely, bopped to 'Twist n Shout'
Spun my love on open clear carpeted floor
Squeal of delight was utter music to my ears
We swayed, clung together, sung songs adored
Sweeter times in our midst, best I've felt in years
14th September
really needed to bring writing back (briefly)
from the sex edges and murder borders
P E A C E
Mara’s hair colour touched by time, her voice hedged—struggling to find its way to me
She had once tried to kill herself.
My flippant thought: Did you succeed?
She looked as she had.
An abandoned relic, bopped-up, surfacing
in her drenched memories—Arbeit macht frei.
The stench of horror clings to her bare flesh,
worn as a wetsuit of near death,
unwashable, unforgettable—always present,
dragging survivors in its spiral of dark desires.
Dipped in death like Lazarus.
One of many Juden,
Spun into the spindle of time
then woven back
into living memory.
Her lips caressed the porcelain rim of a teacup,
allowing her stream of consciousness to flow.
Each sip of thought occupied her scornful solitude.
The cozy, blanketed a tempest of hate,
steeping in a strong pot of paranoia.
A sole survivor, thinking of her great-grand children at the Supernova Sukkot Gathering.
Are they alive?
No word.
Memories placed her on life’s off-ramp,
detouring to the deadened horrors—rising
from the ashes of the Topf & Söhne ovens.
The gas shower of angst traded fears for tears,
fingerless gold rings of love and devotion—
marked as counters of the untold bathers.
Death, hunger and torture, the triple tyranny
of genocide that took her family—people.
Vanquished, now the vanquisher.
Ceaseless revenge inflicted over and over again.
Global tides of sympathy and empathy recede.
Justice silently struggles to calibrate towards
the untempered horror as horror begets horror.
Gaza openly parallels into a concentration camp.
The mirror just told me that he could feel my hair grow,
And I was like, "hey man, me too, it's trippy, you know?"
"Let's share a beer!" The mirror eagerly suggested,
And then I failed a quiz of the addiction inhibition he tested.
Crap, it was a bad idea to cheers the mirror over the sink,
Although it was funny to him, he cracked up and turned pink.
Oh my gosh, I'm going nuts, is that a cat inside the sink?
It winked at me with fiendish eyes, I think I need a drink.
Oh wait, I have already had two times two,
And a puff of some fluffy funny stuff,
And bopped my head on a bricked cube,
And out popped a mushroom that I'm gonna huff.
Can psylicybin be huffed?
We'll find out soon enough.
Just kidding those are all terrible things to do indeed,
Except for the cannabis; all ya' need is a little weed.
Bong voyage! I'm sailing to Sicily with the Wolf of Wallstreet,
Where I'll gulp some 'ludes with Leo, who I sorta wanna meet.
He told me: "I can feel my hair growing.
It feels like how I imagine a pineapple feels like, just inside my head,
And nothing at all like a pineapple."
And then I was like: "no way the mirror just said that,
But I can hear your hair going bald,
And taste me getting fat,
And actually see it too there Leonardo deCueball."
Do pineapples have feelings?
Can they feel your hair growing too?
Hold on, I think I can smell colors with my breath.
When I went to bed that night I didn't feel quite right
Tossed and turned, tried to sleep with all my might
I thought the upset might be from the cookie dough I ate
Baking chocolate chip cookies until well after eight
Finally I fell into a very deep and troubled sleep
From my subconscious crazy thoughts began to creep
In the kitchen a huge and terrifying cookie burglar stood
Stuffing in his mouth as many cookies as he could
Crumbs were scattered on the floor and everywhere
Fury burst inside me and I started to cuss and swear
I grabbed an old curtain rod and bopped him on the head
And much to my surprise-.that cookie monster fell down dead
About that time I awoke with a loud and frantic scream
Thank goodness, the whole thing was just a silly dream
I really don't think I could ever murder any one at all
But that old curtain rod is standing there against the wall....
You Never Know......................
All in fun for the Murderous Thoughts Contest
Part of this is true..I did dream of the Cookie Monster
Barbara Gorelick
Melded with raindrops -
the juiceless earth fruited lusciously
and the roaring lightning pops -
the vehement clouds sparked abundantly.
From time of summer -
for the juvenility they long expected
over the awash field they bopped over -
alike the sweetness of wintry roses, the zestful aroma contrasted.
Here and there the lively music got wind of bongs -
when the rain waved by the wind so heavily
the splashy whispery voice sung like yuletide carols -
with roasted chicken along with champagne, savored blithely.
All of a sudden the sun peeped out in between,
reckoned alike to chance once upon the Kris-Kringle's camion
Over the sky it arced with orange violet yellow blue red indigo green,
glowed as if presents wrapped along with gleeful horizon.
The sky that outraged fell out the factual consequences,
Around the globe masses fantasied the season to be resurgence
Palsy-walsy rain was alike the snow flurry occurrences,
Jejune July was abided by the Holy Christ's renascence.
A walk around the block in my parents’ neighborhood at dawn
wearing mom’s sweater and pop's sneakers with a clown hole cut out for
toe infection
I was stopped by a cop in a cruiser
this was during the Vietnam War long hair ago
he was angry at everyone I was offended by everything
he said which way are you going I said which way are you going
so he socked me in the mouth and handcuffed me
I was arraigned on disorderly conduct and resisting arrest
my good parents came down and stood beside me before the judge
I wrote to the police department internal affairs
not for retribution but to start a paper trail
in case this cop someday bopped one of my brothers
a few months later I’m back at work in NYC
two detectives come into the city to question me
one good cop one bad cop we park in the park me in the back seat
they wanna know was I mouthy to the cop who punched me in the mouth
long story short
they leave me on a bench to eat my lunch and the charges are dropped
A seagull on the railing
And a pigeon on the ground
Were surveying their surroundings
And were pleased at what they found.
“I have the better life,” thought gull,
“For here, along the river,
I have a view and all the food
The river can deliver.
Poor pigeon has to scrounge and peck.
He’s on the grubby streets.
He has to dodge the moving feet
Of everyone he meets.”
The pigeon, on the other hand,
Was thinking as he strutted.
If he had heard the seagull’s thoughts,
He’d likely have rebutted.
“I love my urban habitat.
My world is rich with choice.
On sidewalks, statues or in parks
I burble and rejoice.
There’s plenty here for me to eat.
I’ve got a million friends.
With all the teeming humans,
People-watching never ends.
The seagull, sadly, must rely
On waterways for food.
His meals are raw, while I indulge
In morsels barbecued.”
The pigeon cooed and bopped his head;
The gull took to the sky,
Each convinced that his existence
Made him quite a lucky guy.
Fat you were, beyond description.
Jabba the Hut had nuthin' on you.
From a scruffy little Brillo-pad sized stray
Your appetite ballooned you
To an incontinent continent of feline adiposity.
A fur covered Butterball turkey
With attitude
You never failed to fall below expectation,
Seemingly unable or unwilling
To grasp the concept of the litterbox.
To think we named you Shadow.
Even that part of you looked heavy.
You'd just sit on something that groaned beneath you,
Paw draped across that vast white belly,
And look at me like, "Well?"
Then one day,
Too chubbed to make it across the street in time,
Some car bopped your noggin
And knocked the life outta you.
They brought you to me
Unmarked yet dead;
I crammed your soft bulk into a bootbox
And buried you under our big tree out back.
Death gave you a measure of dignity
Unattainable in life,
As I suppose, in the end, it does us all.