Long Botch Poems
Long Botch Poems. Below are the most popular long Botch by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Botch poems by poem length and keyword.
I loved Chuckie Egg because it reminded me of life,
With its principles which seem many when in strife,
But which are few, like seven or eight, alive and well,
Robust, vital and sensuous, and which you can sell.
Chuckie only had eight unique levels, were repeated,
They were repeated five times, with one culminated,
So there were forty-one levels, all very deftly arrayed,
For you to interact with, all of your dexterity displayed.
Life never demands too much, with the right people,
And level one let you eat all the hen feed and be feeble;
It let you skip needlessly like a child playing hop-scotch,
Allowing you to make mistakes and almost to botch.
You were supposed to feel like Hen House Harry, useful,
But sometimes I thought the caged bird related, frightful,
There were ducks who stole your corn and could kill,
Such that being caged was no fun, not needed, no thrill.
I was not having fun in a Christian family religious,
And felt like a caged bird squawking, a child rebellious;
When my parents thought I was having fun at services,
I just needed released from prison, such discrepancies.
I quickly rose to level nine, a repeat of the first level,
But the bird was loose and sometimes I him did bevel,
But i was never nasty to him but enticed him sometimes,
Using the elevators, purple ladders and jumps at times.
The golden egg reminded me of evolution, that it took,
And that every life was from a golden egg, not crook,
And I worked out that “What came first, chicken or egg?”
Was a creationist question and not an evolutionist peg.
The black background just reminded me of outer space,
Motional itself, so validating the motion of our grace;
It’s not what your background is that matters or sticks,
But what you do with it and impose on it, that’s the tricks.
Show them what rebellion means,
wear your blue faded denim jeans
halfway down your sexy ****
showing off your free swingin boxers.
Feel a breeze in the crotch down at the knees,
take a step and watch them jeans botch
sliding down to your oxfords.
D
o
w
n
w
D
o
w
n
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D
o
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n
w
a
r
d
towards two left feet
with the beat of the music,
glide and bend down with a thud
and pick them up sexy stud.
Start all over again; it happens quite fast.
5/31/2018
inspired by Andrea Dietrich, "Jiggle pants dance"
I turn back the hands of the antique grandfather
But the seconds continue but for you I still bother
I take the batteries out of every clock
To call on you again and to hear your remark
I have succumb to my love and I’m working in my life’s endeavor
Everyday I try to stop time so I can be with you forever
I put more sand in the hour- glass
Hoping it will work and the minutes will not pass
To be together I will use all of my will
I pray to god that the moment can stand still
I have succumb to my love and I’m working in my life’s endeavor
Everyday I try to stop time so I can be with you forever
I’ll do what I have to do and I will not botch
I’ll rip up every calendar and break every watch
I’ll block out the light to shadow the sundial
Just to get a second look at your beautiful smile
I have succumb to my love and I’m working in my life’s endeavor
Everyday I try to stop time so I can be with you forever
To keep our passion locked away in our home
I’ll stop the clicks of every metronome
Do you understand my words and what I’m trying to convey
For you I’d stop the sun and moon to get just one more day
Who knew that we would find a way
To cool ourselves, that summer day
Bored with creating ways for fun
All simmering in the August sun
(Oh, but for a man-made stream!)
Gas lines prepped for installation
Workers ruining our vacation
Still, it was a thing to watch
Making bets on what they'd botch
(Oh, but for a man-made stream!)
We always gave the workers fits
Inspiring many a cursing blitz
Intent to make their faces blue
And blunt the project, through-and-through
(Oh, but for a man-made stream!)
A stanchion, old and under strain
Was precious close to the water main
Steel collapsing, someone cursed
As sure enough, the main had burst!
(Oh, but for a man-made stream!)
Repairing mains beyond their skill
They left the street and let it fill
And much to our extreme delight
It wouldn't be repaired that night
(Oh, but for a man-made stream!)
Well, what a place that street became
A wondrous, splashing water game!
A miracle sent to cool our steam ...
A fluid, flowing, man-made stream!
(A silly, sunny, city-kid's dream!)
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The Hub Of The Earth, I
Some vehicle screeches toward soundless nights,
a wheel cover errant for intimacy,
as it settles midst different roadside slights.
The decreasing engine roars criminally,
pruned for a snapshot temporal existence,
the bright hub unpolishes pitilessly.
The earth's orphans coexisting subsistence,
under new suns and periodical moons,
melts in a blink of an eon insistence.
Meddling miners carved canyons, felled forest looms,
a blue world shadows as a universe watch,
sculpt mountains, charcoal skies, oily oceans, dooms.
A womb will reinvent the species that botch,
our metamorphosis cast a new sasquatch.
2021 March 13
*1st Place*
ALL YOURS (Mar 20)
~~Brian Strand
In the square of the town, is an old wooden clock
with a movement that only one time has been wound.
You can try to get answers, but no one will talk,
though the rumors of horrible sights still abound.
It was scheduled to start up on All Hallows’ Eve,
and the clockmaker finished his work on the job,
was collecting his tools and preparing to leave,
when a spindle broke loose and it started to throb.
When he opened the door to see what was amiss,
’twas the mainspring went flying and pierced through his chest.
Wretched coil pinned him there with a terrible hiss;
as if that wasn’t bad enough, wait for the rest.
Since the door had been opened, the weights were now free,
and then gravity sent things from bad to much worse,
for the image observers say they can’t unsee
were his arms spinning wildly, like somebody cursed.
The long arms of the clock had been snagged on his shirt,
and the force of the mainspring just dragged them around,
and for thirty long seconds, no eyes could divert,
till his arms came to rest as the weights hit the ground.
When they got him, his arms were at nine and at three;
seems the clock’s strange malfunction was caused by his botch.
As for whom the bell tolls, friend, we all check to see,
but they all look away when they’re winding their watch.
----------
Lol, my wife says she's sleeping with one eye open tonight...
This was supposed to be for Craig Cornish's contest, but one
never knows where these things are headed. Turns out
anapestic tetrameter is pretty good for telling yarns.
I hope Terry Flood will approve!
This time you've really thrown me a challengin' curve, Mr. Flach!
You've asked this old "rhymer" to write somethin' called "free verse!"
To concoct such a "masterpiece" is agin' my poetical "religion!"
But if you insist, I'll give it a try sans my dictionary and thesaurus!
I suppose I could come up with somethin' dealin' with current politics,
But that might cause a flap with those who disagree with me.
Perhaps somethin' to do with hot romance, moonlit beaches and love,
But I'm not very astute about such things and would probably botch it!
Oh, I know! How about an animal theme about rabbits and their prolific habits.
Nah! Probably with my acidic tongue I'd leave folks "hoppin'" mad!
There's always nature things to write about - rivers, mountains and such.
Maybe I could concoct a stirrin' verse such as Kilmer's memorable "Trees!"
I could write about guv'ment meddlin', taxes and the high cost of livin',
But I'd get so angry that I might throw rocks at an occupied hearse!
So I'd better control myself and compose somethin' rather mundane,
Like feedin' squirrels and pigeons and contemplatin' the settin' sun!
Joe, though I doubt this composition will rate a Pulitzer Prize for poetry,
I've had a ton of fun and my first "free verse" made for easy writin'!
But I'd better forego writin' free verse before it gets any "vorse!"
And stick to usin' rhyme, rhythm and meter for my verse!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
© All Rights Reserved
Honorable Mention in Joe Flach's "A Poem That Doesn't Rhyme - July 2010
Hi guys go through my new poem.
OCTOBER-SOARED TEMPERATURE
Extemporing October heat, October heat,
You always dance with the flaming beat.
Not like September, Sophisticatedly you treat,
Removing water from taste buds when we eat.
Oops, not again you act like an evil!
Exchanging heat, You rose a notch,
Excreting perspiration through the pores of body, You hikingly botch.
Blending the temperature with moistened air,
Bless us with the Somatic sensation of cold, which is obviously fare.
Whoa, by then everybody will be amazed!
Ivory nuts of the earth's palm,
Stresslessly you be so calm.
Awfully you pour some rain,
Frantically we will be so madly insane.
Dont inject blusterous blaze on the seashore.
Ouch, that really hurts!
Flaring star with high intensity,
Melting down the earths dignity.
Scotch your heightening desire,
Briskly inhale refreshing breathe.
Ohhh boiling Sun, shade under your sheathe!
As like tempting cheesy dip,
Magical smile will appear between the paired lips.
Hold your stubborn heat back,
Begging you please not to swindle and smack.
Alas, mercilessly accomplish your goal!
Radiating solar, dont propagate your burning rays,
Serenely shower your pleasant warmth, every day.
Glacial winds please wrap around,
Happily waving everybody I will found.
Woohoo, Rosaceously waiting for glint of dawn!
By Madhavi
The paintings hang crooked on the walls
For an entire year
Unreachable and untouchable art work
I know I am a strong woman of God.
I never hide my feelings toward someone I never met
God exist through the eyes of the innocents
For them that believe in his power: more power to them
He never fails us; our faith failed us Amen!
As we get ready to count down the end of this year
Haven we learn anything? About what God can do?
The tongue of the false prophets or the pens of the botch poets
Another year another year is almost behind us. Like an untouched virgin
Unreachable and untouchable our hard work
It’s just Lies in a dormant form once again my friends.
,
narrative
Precious novelties, rare and unimpaired
reminder of events I'd love to share.
Recalling special trinkets in a hutch
for display only, labeled "Do Not Touch".
Awaiting finding of a misplaced key,
a new piece tempted curiosity.
Too precious to ignore, my small grandson
maneuvered carefully, warned by his mum.
Rejecting caution, which kids oft ignore
forgetful child just left it on the floor.
The next day, sister found it with her foot.
One piece, now three pieces, ruined, kaput.
Comes precious moment, happ'ning on my watch.
The brother faults his sister for the botch
who then returns accusatory blame.
Routine occurrence, 'companied by shame.
The moment builds, we search the house for glue.
Some chips still gone? Hurrah! we find a few.
Together, we three, talking as we work,
accountable, not acting like a jerk.
A precious moment in our history
when that collectible met surgery.
Four years later, standing tall, gath'ring dust
a priceless symbol, joint endeavor, plus.
written Jan. 2, 2013, revised June 29, 2017