Long Brawl Poems
Long Brawl Poems. Below are the most popular long Brawl by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Brawl poems by poem length and keyword.
ALLITERATION ON MY PERSONAL LINES©
Accolades for an accountable and artistic "alien".
Although, adversaries aspire to amplify my Achilles' heel,
Boring born brainless bold bastards
Bombard bonafide boys buddies,
Breathing bad breath after boozing &
Breaking-out a belligerent brawl,
Conforming to congruous conflict, forcefully coming like a comet.
Daring desperate diabolical dare devil,
Determined to destroy the destiny of a dazzling Daystar.
Henceforth, this epigram enunciates in words my endowments & engulf every equivocal expressions...
Fallacious statements breeds fiasco fantastically,
Ferociously making me fastidious about my fiendish friends.
VickWizzy
Vick Manuel Poetry {VMP}
Copyright ©2009
Super colourful brawl at the bowling green
You should have seen the BLUE today,
Down at the bowling GREEN?
It happened when Old Man MAUVE mistook
What the WHITE ball was meant to mean.
And Mr BROWN, who ran the place,
Seeing what happened, turned a rusty RED,
He stood, fuming with his sun BRONZED skin,
With perfect SILVER hair, he brusquely said:
“You can take your PURPLE bowling set
And shove it with your wrinkly PINK”.
He then slipped on Mrs VIOLET'S shoes,
Made of Italian MUSTARD leather, I think.
Then it was on, the GOLDEN day at the lawn,
The balmiest BLACK brawl ever seen.
CREAM cakes were thrown and tea was spilt,
A most colorful day on the GREEN.
I love a good movie, I honestly do
I’d watch one alone and I’d watch one with you
Adventure or Western, perhaps a film noir,
A comedy suited to my Ma and Pa
I like a good Thriller, a detective drama
A tale of vendetta, of justice or Khama
I do enjoy Horror, I rather like gruesome
And stories of outlaws or some wayward twosome
And thrill me with gunfights, a street brawl or two
A hideous death for the bad guy will do
I do love a story, exciting or fun
Not just an excuse for firing a gun
Okay, I confess that I like those films too
In which gangsters shoot up a hullabaloo
But the plot is the crux, it’s what makes my mind smile
You can’t just have guns going off all the while
It’s pouring outside and pretty damned cold
A night in with Netflix has gotten me sold
So let’s watch a movie; forget going out
Let’s sit down and see what ‘John Wicks’ is about
*
Well, she’s gone to bed and I’m sat on my tod
Most of the cast are conversing with God
I have to confess that this shoot-em-up rave
Is gonna go down… as a personal fave!
A swarm of honey bees came to call.
In form of an elongated brown ball.
They soon backed me up hard against a wall.
I swear that swarm appeared to be two foot tall!
I thought they wanted to start a giant brawl.
I screamed for my next door neighbor, tiny Paul.
He yelled, “You really have some gall!”
Backwards he began to swiftly back up and crawl.
I gave those bees my favorite Barbie doll.
I had bought her at the Honey Bee Mall.
When they figured out I was trying to stall.
They surrounded me like an angry shawl.
You can’t hurt me. I was born in a caul!
I fought courageously as I started to fall.
They chased me to the French Legion Hall.
Where police were having their annual ball.
I watched those coppers run away that fall.
Screaming like banshees, and my neighbor Paul.
It became a huge, giant, ridiculous brawl.
But I was safe, for I hid behind a retaining wall.
Old man leaning on a wooden cane
Stumbling down the sidewalk in the pouring rain
People laughing and wondering too
If He might be insane
- [ ] He looks back at them
And sings a happy song
About how soon he be leaving
And it won’t be too long
Death comes to all
Even those who cannot wait
On their bed or in a brawl
Be you crooked or be you straight
He went on down the alley way
The sky turned dark and starless
He turned around and waved goodbye
And disappeared in darkness
Death comes to all
Even those who cannot wait
On their bed or in a brawl
Be you crooked or be you straight
Why shed the blood of a lamb
that can't trample a scurrying ant
nor scare a perching fly;
that can't hurt a brooding hen
nor startle preening chicks;
that can't raise her voice beyond a baa
nor bleat in a noise-free zone;
that can't brawl with fellow lamb
nor upset her shepherd's peace;
that can't restrict the udder to her young
nor deny the fingers of a milking maid;
that can't shield her ram from harm
nor refuse a nod to the slaughter table;
who in silence walks to the shearing shade,
who in silence yields her throat to a knife--
in silence shouts her innocence?
For food or fur?
No: the price to keep
the wild free,
the roaring lion from shedding blood.
Celestine S.? Ikwuamaesi
(Jan 29, 2018)
Be brave my lads. It's time to rumble
Jump into battle but beware the tumble.
Stay on your toes or you might stumble.
Getting lost will make your owner grumble.
Once you're all inside the enemy's lair
cling to each other so you remain a pair.
There are only two of you - none to spare,
but don't be afraid when he blows hot air.
I pray none of you will be lost in the brawl
after making it through the washer's squall.
Hang in there lads, even if you have to crawl
and soon you'll be set free, one and all.
There's something else I need to mention.
It's very important so pay close attention.
You've been suffering from water retention,
but as you spin, it will lighten your tension.
The dryer's set for one hour on the clock.
Anxiously, I'll wait with each tick and tock,
hoping I'll not lose a member of the flock,
each well-worn warrior, labeled as a sock.
I suppose to most folks the head reposin' on Mars will e'er remain a mystery.
But I think that I have solved that enigma - 'twill surely make medical history!
Oft I've wondered what happened to the head of my ne'er-do-well Uncle Paul,
Who flew off the handle and lost his head in a scandalous barroom brawl!
That head lyin' there in peaceful repose in the crimson dust of Planet Mars,
Is the spittin' image of my Uncle Paul includin' those five forehead scars!
The inscrutable smile on the face and the bushy hair are his for sure!
The sight of those lifeless eyes starin' back at me is very hard to endure!
Thankfully, the clime of the Planet Mars has preserved his skull, it appears,
Though it has reposed on that desolate floor collectin' dust for many years.
I pray that should astronauts one day take flight and land on that celestial ball,
That they'll take pity on his grievin' kin and retrieve the head of Uncle Paul!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
© All Rights Reserved
Placed No. 5 in Carolyn Devonshire's "Sphinx Head On Mars" Contest - Sep 2010
Mohonk Mountain House is a rapturous place
where we love to visit and walk the long trails;
partake in its charming Victorian grace.
A mystical ambiance- there still prevails.
A manor-like hotel for overnight guests,
we managed to sleep there a Saturday night.
The hallways were long, and at once did suggest
past visions we'd seen which left us with much fright.
Contraptions, wall-mounted, held hoses wound up
with nozzles at end placed to put out a fire.
So much like a movie, we'd seen where setup
did look much the same and so dreadfully dire.
That night, we awoke with some noises we heard
that sounded as though they were right in our room.
A voice giggling loudly- now this was absurd,
as women-like shadows quick-heightened our gloom.
We managed to sleep, but woke up- from a dream?
Fire hoses were chasing us down the long hall!
The nozzles were faces with teeth, made us scream!
They smothered and bit us in that horrid brawl.
Next morning we saw, on the desk, a brochure,
a story which made our hair stand up on end,
that Stephen King frequented Mohonk- proved sure,
ghosts helped shape 'The Shining'- that horror he penned!
On the top floor of Smidget’s, you could stay, if you paid,
‘Twas a clean-running place, now, so don’t be dismayed…
‘Twas up there, I’d a run-in with one of the boys,
For his snoring and mumbling had made quite a noise…
“I’ve no wish to fight you,” the bright young man said –
He stared at me then, and I thought I was dead,
For he fingered a knife that he kept in his belt
(I was sure that he wanted my skin and my pelt.)
But Puggily Smidget and Guru appeared,
Things began to look up, it was not as I feared!
For they each had a pistol (one was trained on my head
And one on the youngster who wanted me dead.)
“Now lie down, each one of you,” Prettisome said,
“or each one of you will be a-wishing he’s dead!
We’ll shoot off your noses, and shoot out your ears,
And then leave you looking like that all your years!”
So, I laid down my club, and he dropped his bright knife,
And each one of us muttered and prayed for his life.
But pretty soon, Smidget was whistling a tune,
(It was one she’d picked up from the downstairs saloon)
And Prettisome (who was her mother, it seems)
Came and knocked us both out, pistol-whip: “boys, sweet dreams!”
Then, when we came to, we were both wearing aprons,
And Prettisome said, “get out there, serve the patrons!”
Out there, twenty cowboys, as rough as I’d seen,
Were calling for whiskey, and each man looked mean,
But the boy and I poured out, again and again,
Until, of the twenty, not sleeping, were ten.
So, I picked up the OUZO, and poured THEM all some,
And they all drank it off, and their lips all turned numb,
And their eyes glazed a bit, and they fell to the floor
Except one old geezer, who wanted some more…
The boy and I crept out, then, near silently,
And met to continue our brawl ‘neath a tree
But it seemed, by that time, that his anger was spent,
And mine? Well, I couldn’t have said where it went…
“I’ve no wish to fight you,” the young man then said,
“Nor I, you,” I replied, and he pulled some old bread
From a pocket he had, just inside of his coat,
And we had bread, with OUZO, to wet a dry throat…
3/1/2019