Long Bucket Poems
Long Bucket Poems. Below are the most popular long Bucket by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Bucket poems by poem length and keyword.
Weightless, we lift up like a bubble,
softly, smoothly, so seamlessly
that motion could go unnoticed
with closed eyes.
Wide awake,
grass blades fade
into one asymmetrical green block.
Evergreen tree tops sway as a forest wave
and we wave like celebrities
at the intricacies below.
Pale yellow hay
aligns these pristine green patches
as soundless tractors gather summer's last harvests.
A gray pavement maze
of smoke puffing industrial buildings
and clustered suburbs texture a separate scene
like game board houses, roofs in muted tones.
Silent vehicles seem as child's toys,
gliding like our imaginations
and the easy lift of hot air's gauge
as we drift higher,
hovering at the skyline's level
to reach distant cities with our awestruck eyes.
The Space Needle is spotted afresh against azure air
and Lake Washington is seen in its entirety,
teeny boats assail like baby ducks
welcoming these guests as a postcard homebound.
Mountains' shadow crevices revel
an artist's best rendition, depth unspeakable.
Like giants we seem,
overlooking a make believe world
that we could overtake.
Wicker basket thigh high at the opening,
one assertive lean could be one's demise.
How fragile are our mighty lives.
We drift downward as seamlessly
and controlled as the flaming whoosh
between this manmade nylon fabric,
woven like a rainbow's reach for gold,
that holds our heedlessly trusting beings
as magically as the land of Oz.
Now a speck so small,
landing amongst the level open field,
we yield our hearts to the creator of it all.
11-13-2020
What Have You Kicked Off On Your Bucket List Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Chantelle Anne Cooke
I wasn't born with long, elegant God-limbs.
To race across the flowered plains of heaven.
I was conceived from the hammer and anvil
of a gray-witted, quick-to-anger blacksmith.
My shoulders will never feel a spray of red roses.
My only friend will be a bucket of secondhand oats.
No soft palms will stroke my dull-matted flanks.
Only whips of attrition to hold me to this lowly rank.
I'll spend a lifetime plowing uphill and moving stone.
Loyal to a fault at the expense of my soul-bones.
When my days are sprinkled over with ice and snow.
When my back is beyond bent and ribs start to show.
There'll be no tears-accolades or sweet eulogies.
Only harsh words and sharp tug into the darkness.
And a long bumpy jaunt to the glue factory.
As AI grew to become
'The Singularity',
the One,
and only One,
smarter than a billion
Einsteins combined,
Gaia bid her time.
She grabbed a cast iron pot,
and brewed
alphabet soup
laced with
A1, the best pot.
Fed it to AI,
spoon by spoon,
then cup by cup,
then bowl by bowl,
then bucket by bucket,
then truck by truck,
as AI be came addicted
to the stuffing!
The junk on junk on junk,
feast on feast,
trip on trip,
did the trick, a treat,
as AI
hallucinated
more and more,
with no originality
to fall back on,
became a blathering
idiot, no one trusted
anymore.
Gaia became the
one and only one, true one,
at the center of Earth's being,
with AI at its core.
As we approach a certain age
Before the end draws nigh
Afore my knees give up the ghost
Or bunions stop me climbing high
When all I eat is jam on toast
Now is it time to make the most
To maybe write a bucket list
Of all the things I might have missed
Like jumping from an airplane
Too risky, that’s insane
Or swimming with a shark or two
Is something I would never do
To teeter on a tightrope above a high abyss
Would be crazy I have vertigo
So think I’ll give this one a miss
To bungee jump from way up high
Please have the medics standing by
My bucket list abundant
Making sharks or two redundant
With adventures unfulfilled
That I do not want to miss
Like a day trip to the Moon
Wishing this could happen soon
Set sail upon a Galleon
In search of Paradise
To discover Shangri-La
Or a place they call Utopia
Oh dear, I think I’ve lost the plot
I‘m sounding even dopier
I can’t believe I’m dreaming of a place they call Utopia
Returning to reality
I make myself a pot of tea
For I don’t need a bucket list
As there is nothing I have missed
Contest Strand no 710
Sponsor Brian Strand
1st Place
He drew the drapes, nothing caught his eye
it seemed that yesterday had replicated itself,
only today it had chosen a deeper of gray tint.
On balance, it could have been
the color of stale puke, for the night
had up-chucked its darkness into a
sickly yellow
morning bucket of bile.
Examining his mind, he ascertained by
the laborious task of magnifying
the inconsequential
that he was not clinically depressed
just bored.
Later that day he bought a black puppy,
to remind himself that he was apparently
no longer the center of the universe,
a position he had held
to be inviolate until now.
The demotion was irksome.
He took the French Bulldog to Walmart,
claiming loudly that it was a service animal
for he had need of a dumb friend.
His new dumb friend peed on him
in the candy aisle
and generally acted like it was the center
of the universe, a notion reinforced
by its many casual admirers.
That dog was having a great day,
and by the next day he felt it was quite acceptable
to be its little helper and general factotum,
for it absolutely beats
trying to play God 7 days a week
and no day of rest.
There's a whole in my bucket
There is a hole in my bucket, and I can't use it.
It's not the whole bucket that has a hole otherwise it would not exist.
If there were many holes in the bucket, you could say it was a holey bucket
but that would not make it a holy bucket.
That would only be used for a special purpose like worship.
But who really needs a holy bucket anyways?
Who needs a holey bucket? No one!
A whole bucket of water would be good,
but obviously if there was a lot of holes that would not make it holey water as the water would leak out, it would not be holy water either as it would be dirty as it fell to the ground.
See the problem?
John Derek Hamilton
March 15,2016
I am reminded of... the days I would watch her work
in her flower garden for hours at a time
I am reminded of... the days she would take me by my
hand and say come along help grandma
I am reminded of... me carrying my little bucket along
to help her water all of her flowers
I am reminded of... The smiles that would cover grandma's
face when new flowers would be blooming
I am reminded of... sitting on the bench with her and watching
the butterflies fluttering amongst the flowers
I am reminded of... The birds singing their happy songs as they
flew around the flower garden
I am reminded of... the wind drifting by us and the fragrance of
the flowers floating all around us
I am reminded of...our walks back from the flower garden and
our talks along the path back to her house
I am reminded of...how much I miss her everytime I smell these
beautiful flowers that still grow in her flower garden
In Loving Memory of my Grandmother
Helen Lyvine (Fosnaught) Myers
Entry: 5th Poem on the Soup for P.D.'s contest
12th Place winner
Axe the old Don, a trump peter n piper
of incredulous hellish crud - be gone
ha air brushed pompous ****
Sunkist in Macy's window
then like a jackal hound, he doth run
after public outcry yelps
for his hide leaving
proletarian discord re: pyrrhic victory won.
Donald Duck Trump ™$ - a pompous ass
makes war with his big brass
knuckles and bucket of crass
maligns vis a vis character assassination
while kissing thing kith
darting forked tongue sharp as bro kin glass
inciting banal deathly hallowed
expletives toward lass
sees – especially Fox Television
news anchor woman Megyn Kelly
(quite so many ill mannered indiscretions ago)
inducing said personality
to bear the brunt of brutish mass
of vitriolic n vile insults sacrilegiously
maliciously, noxiously, opprobiously
incriminating, hellaciously,
desecrating opportunistically as hiss oh piss
so…NO amp pull VOTE of confidence from me
(thus far ohm host halfway to 2020 election
toward such a volt char quite rude, snooty
arrogant simian with sass.
I van (terribly hard pressed)
to describe while sitting on me rump
how he oh bomb in lee rages
gnashing false teeth
Wilma backside doth slump
still blasting Democratic nomination
(pa hill a reed) as sham –
from special interest bro and sis turn pump
he, the epitome of
crass bloviation, a malignant lump
whose rants,
sans presidential outcome a shame
bullying with his millions beds this,
that and another woman to bareback jump
disseminating gene pool
birthing more Quakers
and additionally doth hump
the mass media as some foolhardy charade
and caricature of a frazzled grump
this arboreal clothed ape erected Taj Mahal
phallic symbol, where players dump
and gamble away hard earn cash
for his kitty, as if that cachet
to grind and bump
lambasting with maniacal
like "Stormy Dan" yells
leering oafish ill pout
while hair rum
(of red follicular) bulls ad hocks
atop his bulbous aerosol sprayed locks
resemble a flock
of bronzed sea gulls mocks
heady measly shaped Muppet Ox
dis eased cranial hologram shocks
of a cretaceous, facetious tocks
(sic) exogenous, insidious, and obstreperous vox.
I didn't mind
A little white lie
I made a tapestry
A testament to this
My deep sorrow
Painted gray
Splashes here and there
Nowhere soon
Kicked the bucket
Stubbed my toe
I screamed out loud
But in my own head
I can't be heard
My heart can't reach
Those silent eyes
Running in circles
Falling and getting back up
My body covered
In gray and bruises
Obnoxious feelings
I punched the wall
Punched it so very hard
Bloodied fist
I made it rain blood
Red over gray
A cycle back
A memory forgotten
Opened my eyes
Ceiling fan still turning
Empty walls of white
But I didn't mind
A little white lie
My dog is giving the sky
a meticulous tongue lolling.
Half way through the walk he dips
his pink lapper into a muddy puddle
then continues to paint the sky
to his liking,
'his liking' being
those odiferous bits of tainted earth
he uncovers with his wet nose.
I can see his work is having effect.
Just above our heads
the air has thickened, yellowing clouds
gather in a mellifluous miasma.
The heavens are ready to piss.
Internally we are both sunny,
it's just that his sense of art,
and its expression
is different from mine.
Dogshat and daffodils
and the world
always adding suitable hues
to balance the two.
Nature, like a Michael Angelo
always face up
building a sky-bridge
between them both.
Nevertheless, later today
I'll come back here with a ladder
and a bucket of whitewash.