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.
Charlotte and the bear came out of hibernation at exactly the same time.
The bear was irritable and hungry, and she looked tasty.
Don’t even think about it, I’ve killed bigger people than you before breakfast.
The bear hadn't a clue what she was on about, but there was definitely something weird about her.
They both headed into town.
The fishmonger recognised Charlotte from the wanted posters he had seen around town.
This didn’t faze Charlotte, as the gutting knife entered his neck.
She took a bucket of fish out and handed it to the bear.
The bear was grateful, but still left with an uneasy feeling.
Charlotte was not enamoured with the old guy driving the sports car, especially when he made sexual remarks to her.
She did like driving the car, though, and she was sure his body would be found at some point.
Charlotte couldn’t believe the police were on her tail
She headed back to the cave where the bear was napping
The manhunt had begun
They came across the cave and began to move in
Charlotte prodded the bear and told him to growl
The bear got such a fright, it scampered right out the cave into the path of the oncoming police
The officers, shocked, decided she sure as hell wasn’t in there
Charlotte was not enamoured with the choices she had made in her life and decided to turn over a new leaf and get help.
The bear hoped to hell that mad woman was gone because
the strain was really getting to him.
Charlotte agreed with the psychiatrist, electric shock treatment was definitely the way to go.
The psychiatrist sort of agreed as ten thousand volts surged through his body, killing him outright.
Charlotte left the wanted posters behind and headed for a new life in the big apple.
Hopefully, Charlotte will change and become a model citizen.
The bear hopes so too, he wasn’t really enamoured with Charlotte.
Often, I enter a contest
I enter the ones I like best
But one sponsor said
Write stood on your head
I moved on to check out the rest
Another said stand in a bucket
Write Latin, or I’m gonna chuck it
Eight lines by the way
Or get an NA
I thought about that and said f… ..
[They say stick to your chosen form
You should never break with the norm
In two stanza’s time
I’m switching to rhyme
The purist would kick up a storm]
But what really scrambles my brain
Is what comes up time and again
It’s apps for surmounting
The problem of counting
And one’s a particular pain….
*
‘How many syllables’, that’s what gets me
The logic it uses ain’t easy to see
Take for example the simple word ‘Wouldn’t’
They say it’s one syllable…
See it?..
I couldn’t
It misreads quotation marks, single or double
A single’s a syllable….. doubles?…. no trouble
It claims that the open quote counts as a syllable
Yet the ensuing quote counts not at all
Now I’m not unique so I run with the crowd
And I’m sure that no-one reads quote marks aloud
With ‘How Many Syllables’, if demand lingers
I simply ignore it and count on my fingers
But Soup has a resource called ‘Syllable Counter’
Which disregards quote marks that it may encounter.
In ‘shouldn’t’ and ‘wouldn’t’ and ‘mustn’t’ and ‘couldn’t’
The syllables all number two
And all of that makes pretty good sense to me…
So does it make good sense to you?
*
I love writing poetry, dearly
And often I get it right… nearly
So please do feel free
To set rules for me
But ‘How Many Syllables’?…. Really?
Written March 21, 2013
Feel the slim slow slider
The leather seat behind her
Where the innocent crack
And the kids keep coming back
For flashing lights and heart attacks
Feel the slim slow slider
In the midnight rider
Where the loveless greet with fleeting feet
Say come on down and take a seat
Beside the boy who smells so sweet
Oh slim slow slider
Hear the echo of the fire
That forever burns inside her
Cracklin' songs as embers fall
You would have thought they had it all
Feel the slim slow slider
Remove material attire
Smooth hands caress what I possess
Ain't no better way to de-stress
Than in the bucket under duress
The smell of fresh baked cakes keeps floating in the air and daylight burst through the sky spilling coffee latte on the roof and I stood still inside and watch the cream drips slowly from the ceiling and my appetite began to grow.
The morning delicacies with its illuminated prophecy is baked in the sun on top of the roof and the skies spreads out over it, sauteing it with thick syrup mixed in consorted colors. And I watch the oracle unfold.
It is not one of the normal days when everything goes according to plan, the distraction chime in and the trespassers start singing a hideous song and the birds appear out of nowhere flying all over the skies.
I have waited for this moment to come, when the universe would bend its knees and run with the flame before the games and lit up the world and cover the darkness around.
The darkness is fading and true lights have emerged from the heart. The intensity is strong and I want you to come along. The heat is swelling and the asphalt is melting; the animals are jumping all around and the dowry has fallen from the skies and consumes the entire town.
The people were all sleeping and some were still dreaming the ball of fire lit up the sky and havens embrace the morning with a bucket of water to quell the global disaster.
They weave the thread of time, in the pattern of their mind, the threads are moving through the needle and the sewing machine stands still in the garment factory and watch and the threads crosses the points towards the median line.
It carves out various patterns of old and stitch them together in one bundle and place them on the assemble line. The Dowry in the skies came just in time to save them from total destruction.
In a horse life.We can play with a burlap feed
bag, an empty milk jug, or chew on the barn stall
door.Just to kill some time, or to kill some every
day bordom.In a horse life.We get names like
Black Beauty, Flicka, Seabiscuit, or Secretariat.
In a horse life.We do tricks like bowing our heads
down, or placing our shoe upon a pedastool.Picking
up the cowboy hat.While tapping our feet rata-tat-tat.
In a horse life.We like a good block of salt.With lots
of minerals, to lick upon.A wholesome bale of hay.To
start off a brand new day.Or a bucket of grain.To keep
us all healthy, fat, and sane.And a fresh bucket of water,
to wash it all down.In a horse life.I could be losing a
horseshoe.While the rider is losing his mind.In a horse
life.We can be a workhorse, a race horse, or a trick pony.
Or maybe a showhorse, or possibly a circus horse.With
out all the phoney baloney.In a horse life.We can run all
day in the open sun, or run the race trak.While the betters
place their wagers.Of course, at the horse racing track
betters window.In a horse life..
From within the frost-frozen, bare-boarded, shed
within its loosely hung zee-braced door agape
the spring light peeked.
Warming the woodsheds King’s pine planks
toasting the ten penny nails
popping the planks to a toe-stubbing height.
Door slamming dashes through the obstacle course of cord,
tinder, rake and hoe;
to the semi attached outhouse.
Draws half down,
butt bitten by March’s wind;
the two holer waits, lye bucket at the base.
Curled, yellow-brown, newspaper pages from 1890,
the shade of Uncle George’s pipe stained teeth, wiggle in the wind;
as do I when with a holler as
breeze to bottom freeze dries.
A half flashed mad dash to the kitchen door
is halted; awestruck at the gapping door to the kitchen garden.
Raspberry-red, tit tipped rhubarb buds and stalks,
warmed by the sheltered spring sun;
set my mouth to drool.
A waylaid girl child in transit.
Standing on the fantail of a warship on patrol,
Its wake stretching off to from where I’d come,
Transporting me back to my first day aboard,
Three long deployments ago.
I’d learned about things like a bucket of steam,
A sky hook, and a left-handed marlinspike.
When sent below to fetch a fireman’s punch,
I came back with both shoulders bruised.
Now, beneath this cold Comanche moon,
I find calm in the grace of self-reflection,
And remember certain bitter confrontations,
Where the only honest words were angry ones.
I sincerely regret all my barbarous cruelties,
But I make no apologies for being a survivor,
While taking the heat on the South China Sea,
Waiting for World War Whatever.
The Kite
It was great fun at the Jersey Shore
flying our kite up high and away.
It is said, 'what goes up, must come down'
when laws of gravity have their way.
And so it did with a steep nose dive,
heading, it seemed, to the soft white sand.
But with a will of its own it chose
a cottage rooftop chimney to land.
Our kite went up, up high and away,
but only came down part way, that day.
Sandra M. Haight
~NA~
Contest: What Goes Up, Must Come Down
Sponsor: Catie Lindsay
Judged: 03/07/2016
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Ocean Beach at the Jersey Shore, 2010. An electric company utility truck tried to take the kite down, but couldn't reach it with their bucket. Our kite was still there the next summer in 2011 but eventually was gone in 2012.
I miss the barn, the hay loft,
a place to listen to the midday sun
creaking through old wood.,
the small clouds of horse flies
moving as one in their jet-pack bodies,
that rose and fell
their small engines stuttering.
The humpbacked skeleton of a tractor
where goats built their castles,
the oily emptiness of its heart
as it clanked under their hooves
into a gearless life once more.
When the empty stalls echoed a warning
to the horses that no longer stabled there,
I would get up into the sagging rafters
where feather whiskered winds
rustled dust through broken boards,
It used to take them an hour
before they knew I was missing,
later they knew where to find me.
I miss the soul-deep smell
of dry leather tackle long unharnessed,
the empty cans of linseed and engine oil,
the old shotgun so rusted
it grew out of a dirt-caked bucket
as brown as a whittled flower stalk.
All gone, the barn, the farm house
and ‘they’ - gone now.
Yet sometimes they call to me
as I dream in a lullaby loft,
and I still a little disappointed
to be found.
Read Ted Kooser. Save your egg cartons until you have a fitted stack tall enough to be mistaken for an art project. Melt them down in a bucket of water. See how the float at first, then slowly succumb. Do not tell anyone about the egg cartons until they have fully disintegrated. Drink Rhubarb wine. Buy the straw hat from the old Vietnamese lady at your local Farmer’s Market. The smile she gives you will sate you for years to come. Fall in love. Do not be afraid to slap the five pound bag of rice in the supermarket. You will get looks, but you will be more alive than those watching. Write for someone else. Make them up, or pick someone out of a magazine. They can be your age, or not. It is up to fate more than your own brain. Understand that you are doing very well, and that there is value in waking up. Do not be afraid that you can’t remember dreams, or that you dream of a huge black wall moving in like a season. Read some more Ted Kooser. Laugh often, and easily. Die on a few small hills. Create a list of advice for young poets to discover who you really are.