Long Brogue Poems
Long Brogue Poems. Below are the most popular long Brogue by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Brogue poems by poem length and keyword.
Alright still gobsmacked how we were
Attacked..hacked..hijacked...whacked
Ransacked cracked shellacked poleaxed
By his relaxed Rat packed knack maxed
So here's a witty ditty ode to Travis
No ifs or buts can't tut tut... annul it or cull it
Straight out of the hut a classy brassy strut
Gung ho have a go heave ho maestro Mullet
Slaying & flaying.. no rut just a glorious glut
Left a stark dark smut.. every bowler's a mutt
Like some flirty dirty sl*t playing with the nut
Hard not to swoon at the boon of the loon
Croon at Travis's off his Head buffoon tune
Stubby not chubby tad tubby like David Boon
Us staunch fans of the promising paunch gasping
Can't snub or sub.. like a lad down the pub or club
Another out of whack attack does launch rasping
Rogue's Bogan brogue.. flashes his blade like Shogun
Wizard of Oz as loved as X men's Logan or Paul Hogan
Dashes and lashes.."Taches win Ashes" the Travis slogan
Males have always made it easy for me to veto
either by words or actions or both.
You started so altruistic and added a brainless flare,
I’ve never imagined one on goggles with such virility
with books and tie, making his swagger uniquely swanky.
This dissertation will prove interesting and worthy
as you plant in my isolated garden,
so many Chamomiles and exotic plants
making me forget the number of times
my emotions have been subjected to an Ambulance.
Your shawama description
blew up a vehicle from my laughter
yet flows with sincerity, grace and caliber.
You, on sweaty tight singlet
and pelvic hugging boxers, on the other hand
presents like a delicious volauvent.
Your heart speaks innocently
in a thick romantic brogue.
I’ve enjoyed the words coming out of it
which are more than mere blandishments.
I’ll hold onto them and carry your actions
like a gold-plated Candelabra.
My heart is in great amity with yours
and its acceptance, totally of its own volition
despite my ‘Yes’ being a cataclysmic event.
I’ve long signed the blank cheque
already hoping for ante-natal sessions by your own doing.
every March seventeenth, the glint froom
a perverted imp finds me achin'
and if aye dig deep enough,
this Goyish pseudo judo day yo criss chin
can figuratively unearth a puckish
(gnome like) elfish sprite
with a layer ring ga Erin
which byte size (key) ah man able troll
help pan for treasure hunters
plume bing the underworld
with his (aye farm lee bull eve
moost har male) sly grin
stirring thy faux set (head)
feigned Irish with in
new mutter nada trace,
(boot perhaps juiced an iota)
o' Brogue kin
Celtic gene found
within me genealogical tree,
an itty bitty min
newt chromosomal thread,
(which with assistance of Crispr)
i.e., a more discerning Quaker can pin
point how this predominantly
(decrepit ole coot)
Semitic baby boomer tub hoot
(whale hugging
ma gude look four leaf Shamrock)
can locate long buried loot
according to legend
(plus devout avid fervent
Irish Aunt Fib B. Hen
aka Sally Salamander Newt)
doth avail her excitement to help up root
(perhaps revisiting a previously dug oop ditch)
maybe treasure undetected
cuz ova technical,
and/or mechanical glitch
truth to the tantalizing myth
whar hike can hitch
my dreams to a morning star,
that would make a par man rich
and put an end
to mine fingers that hoo twitch
which i roan nick pie rite (of quartz)
alluding to healthy appetite,
sans tea zing alluring
(whet started as byte)
size nar invisible craving,
which fantasy easily didst excite
(necessitating yars true lee) to don robe of foo fight
tar, yet persistent and nagging lust didst light
lore (akin to un hearth thing
pot o' gold at rainbow's end),
cuz hum ma penniless plight
such dogged pursuit, a mirage,
whereat aye drool in plain sight
thus conk clue ding this
hip poe eponymous droning pome
though, tis plenti mo' hie hood write!
Form:
The Thing About Flying
David J Walker
Everyone said it was
Okay for you to fly
It was a good day
And what does dying
mean anyway
if you can’t spread your wings
and try
To reach for higher things
Known only in the context of
A clear blue sky
Everyone said it was
Okay for you to die
While I
And thousands
Remain on the dry earth
Contemplating your
Irish Birth
Your Irish brogue
Your boyish grin
Your pale blue Irish eyes
And paler Irish skin
Your dry whit
Your never quit attitude
About everything and
Everyone you touched
You made us believe in
Rainbows and leprechauns
You were the pot of gold
That everyone could touch
But no one could hold
Except God and your family
So fly my friend
That’s the thing about
Flying
And in the end
You bequeath your love
And smile
To us all
Off the train I hit the streets
and start laughing. This is ridiculous,
incomprehensible. How can innumerable bipeds
have individual inner lives. Why are they doing
what they’re doing? I have no answer
New York City but to also go about my business
in this case prepare for surgery, survival.
But why survive with so many exact replicas
to replace me? A swarm of ants or hive of bees,
social organisms they’re called, climbing
over each other, avoiding bumping and amazingly
making way, anticipating the sudden turns
and straight paths of others, strangers but brothers,
sisters incubating, the cells of a small
organ, nodes of a single semi-conscious organism.
The concept of a higher power that cares
for me is also risible yet how else
can I explain the surgeon and his team,
robots and magnetic resonance imaging machines,
all primed and trained to save my life.
They are not particularly interested in what
I do with my time. I am immediately
in love with the Irish brogue of the head nurse,
the Indian skin of the physician’s assistant.
The long extraordinarily thin
fingers of the famous surgeon. All
mine to savor (and the other cancer patients).
Despair, lose all hope
that’s what the sign says at the gates of hell
and at the Memorial Sloan Kettering Cancer Center the sign says
Be kind to our customers who are waiting and suffering.
Yesterday’s suicidal thoughts: the mind
is a clever servant, insufferable master. Therefore,
meditate on this: absolute need, dependence on the Other.
I still like Hombre, The Shootist and Ulzana’s Raid
but realize those dead heroes
were subordinate to society: the gun manufacturers who armed them.
Thus, I go for cancer tests, accepting, not predicting results.
Hero accepting help.
A torrential rain following five days of flooding,
tornadoes out west busting up wooden towns
all because too many of us are hoarding plastic, herding electrons.
None of us know how it will end, what the outcome will be
(of our surgery). The best that can be said is
Don’t forget to breathe. And you might
as well believe in that higher power.
the king felt thwarted in his own kitchen
he was not fancy, but his concoctions were ’n
the cook said to her sous chef, he is a rogue!
in her unusual jibber jabber, an Irish brogue
the king knew he was entitled, he had been so at birth
He straightened his crown, and bowed to the earth
a loudspeaker on the wall laughed at his pompous ways
he baked a treasure in his scones, in pinks and grays
the cook tried not to laugh, she had to hold on to the sink
The sous chef was yelling “those scones are gray and pink!”
the king’s cheeks were all red, he ran from the place
Serves him right said the cook, making fun of His Grace.
Matthew O' Harris Ease A "FAKE" Irishman
Juiced tin he nuff tame afore
thee Saint Patrick's Day,
(hens this faux written accent
donned to sail hub berate won big todo
fur those peep pull o' Eire rush deuce cent)
aye pretend, and thence make oop
duff fallow wing vary minor event
harkening back e'er sins this generic gent,
hooped tubby imp poet hint wannabe,
(who hapt tubby absent
without leave from Brogue kin home
since a lil whippersnapper, and accident
boot tappin), when me note holler than
garden variety leprechaun, advertisement
tuff hind miss elf, no major ailment -
good red ants tomb ma late mum,
which fair re: creatures, no argument
booth us, iz moar rare than
finding far leaf clover,
and eek will coz fur astonishment
eef hoodlum (caw zing
bedlam) sought atonement
Yukon bull heave or no,
how life on the lamb
as a Dublin street urchin met belligerent
scruffy geezers old looking and bent
till kind ole soul named C. Clement
took yaws truly as apprenticed
Baron without complaint,
though kept ma lidded concealment
secret til search abandoned confident
gnome hissing pipsqueak,
would be sorely missed
giving fresh start with help to coinvent
patois, and be comb real estate magnet
ne'er no wing want oof
basic needs - yea content
in due time making pile
moan hee tall as Taj Mahal
kicking back during Lent
gerrymandering convalescent
old age spinning yarns
for modest copayment
total tubular tales with
nary a Harris Boss Tweed stitch of truth!
The following reasonable obsolete rhyme
verst heard in my faux class (sic) lilting brogue
courtesy coronavirus (COVID-19) rogue
wrought approximate sixth month academic hiatus
nevertheless September 1st, 2020
signals resumption of school year back in vogue.
Challenges abound as millions of students re:zoom
trudging off to..., yet another bus comes by... vroom,
whereby administrators establish
virtual and/or actual room
adapt to delegate assignments as reported by newsroom
facilitated by yours truly,
a bonafide married, yet unbridled groom.
Though mind boggling, death defying,
and harrowing scenario daring to crisscross
(dangerous information highway road)
will confront those most qualified to teach
impressionable minds to overload
nevertheless I envy those learning
courtesy high tech mode.
Golden (gated) opportunity
spectacularly presented to bridge,
kickstart, and buttress young minds
immodestly excited and
amenable to learn online
one old googly eyed
aging pencil necked geek
makes his poetically cameo appearance
crafting awareness about severe complication
hash-tagging those best equipped to teach,
which alternatives pinterest me
linkedin, trumpeted nsync with
tried and true methodology
(think white/blackboard
with markers and/or chalk respectively),
who by the way never got chosen to
clap erasers outside,
fold flag ditto after said
emblematic sanctified cloth unfurled,
nor serve as safety patrol.
Though born within baby boom generation,
I horrendously (nobly) struggled
to acquire cognitive consonance
floundered like a fish out of water
forever barely achieving passable grade
He readily attests de facto failure
if hypothetically enrolled in kindergarten today,
I would get demoted to preschool
(a slight bit of hyperbole),
thus both laments abysmal track record,
whereby attending conventional
schools of hard knocks
(situated within Lower Providence district)
emotionally fracturing psyche
until this very waking moment,
and moost likely mine
remaining tenure on Earth.
I am Irish,
I do not patter a brogue, not lilt, or prate the Celtic.
I’m annexed English, cockney, a dead queens piglish,
chameleon tongued.
Something took me, shook me like a spade
until an un-rooted soil fell, a ground crumbled
grew tropical jungles of alien expression.
Years press, some bulldozed, some were the wrecking ball.
Found my clay feet stomping, squishing mud,
fostering images, a mire between a to zee
but never enough letters to fit a parlance;
my placeless patios, my me.
America, a melting polyglot,
I’m still slanging, hanging words out to dry, new words
told contrary-wise estranged in an outlandish manner
of palaver,
a poetry of sorts,
sounds unbound and breathing
but never replete, yet a bellyful
to live in the eyes and ears.
Speak slowly and I will hear you with my lips.
STAMPEDE
Beneath the moon’s pale, a requited glow,
A hyperbolic crowd begins to grow.
The sphere is aired with fear and haste,
A storm of bodies, my qualms displaced.
A million cry, a sudden shove,
To venerate order, stripped of love.
Feet like thunder, hearts like drums,
Chaos shouts, and silence comes.
The pressing of souls, the crush of skin,
A pastiche, none had sought in a fin.
Breath is stolen, hope forgotten,
The rising tide with a brogue, spares no one.
Dreams are trampled, testimonial fade,
In lingerie where the lost are laid.
The refulgent souls biding, now let go,
Beyond the weight of sorrow’s plow.
The dirge lingers, sharp and cold,
A tragedy has drubbed vast to behold.
Each hero a story, left untold,
Each step a grief that won’t grow old.
Oh, let us pause and learn the cost,
The price of life for rice swiftly lost.
For in the rush, the fray, the fight,
We drown the snivel stars, we dim the night.
The paroxysm still slaps my imagination,
They left eagerly to be cut by illusion;
I’m still raddled in the hands of rain,
For the psephology sprayed like grains.
In my wander of syncretism, I sigh!
Man’s search for food via the mild,
Has garnished life out there a tame,
A radical shawl for a renewed shame!