Long Bugs Poems
Long Bugs Poems. Below are the most popular long Bugs by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Bugs poems by poem length and keyword.
"Keep your face to the sunshine and you cannot see the shadow. It's what sunflowers do." – Helen Keller
Sunflowers spin pretty stories
Inviting quiet dreams, growing
Memories, prayed in allegories
Portrayed by hearts knowing…
The wise old owl isn’t wise
When it loses its life to greed
Never heeding God’s advice
To always give to those in need
The sly old fox isn’t truly sly
Spending its time stealing life
From critters not ready to die
Gentle creatures without strife
The hungry bear never hugs
Instead bringing fear to souls
Refusing to live on slugs and bugs
Deepest forest paths are their patrols
Sunflowers are brightest gold
Born beneath cobalt skies who show
Despite their beauty, they still get old
Proving that everything dies, even so…
Because of the brightest Son
We can live forever in paradise
When all our lives are said and done,
We’ll meet the One who paid the price…
For everlasting life with Him
Who loved us more than we deserve
We sing of Him in every hymn,
Forever loving – I’ll always serve…
The greatest flower, the shining Son
This is the beautiful that won’t be outdone!
Attendants
Attendants once were happy in the ancient mansion
Made of sand and granite by the cliff
How fortuitous to be employed in these harsh times
Tending to the mundane chores and sober orders
The rule of life for functionaries is to fulfill the reasonable requests
I guess things must have changed in history between the shadows
The help demand more benefits and pay
My servants used to bring me, one vitamin for breakfast
Champagne or absinthe were always there to wash it down
I had one worker for each arm and leg
The four of them became uniquely useless
So what if I forgot their names and birthdays
They still get paid and have definable obligations
Incongruities and inconsistencies will not be tolerated
Attendants are attendants one and the same
Now they play all day
Overlook the cliff at ships and crashing waves below
Sometimes all four gather shells down there and swim the shallows
Or gather pine cones to throw around into tomorrow
In their spare time they take me out like trash
One of them on each arm and leg and toss me in the yard
Being old and feeble I cannot walk or get around myself
I get by on rain water and bugs that happen by
The servants have taken over the old gray mansion
They copulate inside and left me here to die
Entered Contest on - 12/05/14 - "ONE OF YOUR BEST" - Poetry contest
With factories and private jets, the elite
produces 100, 000 times more carbon
than you or I. (It has gone up to .04 from .03 ppm.
Yet, we are the ones lectured in scare, tactic.
Tell me something. Do you see the Davosites
eating bugs and car-pooling?
Do you see them eating filet mignon and travelling
in a style harmful to the Planet?
Extravagance is not conservation.
It is the opposite.
They are enslaving you with pretty notions
and hypocrisy.
"Israel will be compassed about with armies"
...Iran, Turkey, Sudan, Russia, Lebanon, Syria...
Psalms 83, Ezekial 38.
"Wonder what is on tv tonight?"
(and you haven't even flipped through the Bible
to see if it was prophesied)C
(I know it's not as riveting as a cookoff or American Idols.)
One third of the population will perish from their coming war and deeds. That is 2.6 BILLION WITH A "B"
AL...
Off-chances, no horizons
without perspectives, what would be
of us all ...!?
Without roads,
without a path, what would be of the feet !?
What would become of the wings
without space and dreams ...
Heaven would be,
without stars
and angels ...
What would become of the sea,
no water,
without fish ...
What would become of the forest,
without trees,
no bugs ...
What would be from the air,
without birds,
Without Men...
what would be of love,
without lovers ...
What would become of death,
without mortals ...
What would become of life,
without those who live ...
What would become of humanity
Without Men...
It would be for men.
without father... ?
Consider my grave your resting place too,
An empathetic soul who rests here.
Worry not poet, it haunts no more,
Covered with maggots, I've rotted here for a while.
These sockets are now emptied, I see nothing to judge.
With my brains swallowed,
I am no critique.
Only bones adorning dirt and bugs.
Justitia, you can call me.
Lend me your ears and I'll spit the truth.
They cherished me when lived,
Now left in a churchyard to rot and suffocate.
Did I not serve them well?
Recall the fights I fought, for our pride poet.
Yet, lie here, with mates, died in my lap.
Never craved for this grave,
But a life, unafraid.
Early, wasn't it?
My beard never turned grey, in fact.
Celebrate my story, in a poem in your next birth.
With a quick competitive descent,
Darling Daffy and his feisty duels;
No sportsmanship? He turns violent;
He’s a stickler for all of the rules;
Makes no difference if it’s a giraffe
or Bugs Bunny banging on that piano,
play the game fair or get cut in half;
This the challengers ALWAYS know;
‘A lower standard will always debase!’
screams a bar sign in ACME letters;
Looking for a fair fight? This is the place.
Who’s fire with melodic measures?
Sly cockatoo sashays in with a grin,
itching to throw in a song that’s fire;
He holds the decadence of a violin,
and claims to be an A list player;
Daffy smugly looks him up and down
‘You win? With that? What fallacies!!’
‘I’m Fuego I play two. Give me my crown.
Known as the best to play Merry Melodies.’
To be continued …
??v ?? ?? ?? ? I Love You.............!! ?? v ?? ?? ?? ?
•.?*... ...*?.• •*.
these myopic ocular orbs pine
for an attractive gal to be adored
far eye got the near rest insight
per a magic bullet if jew r bored
undue flattering praises
might induce her 2 c come floored
perhaps without any family, friends, relatives...
or if religious ye kin pray to da lord
unless ya r moored
den let dis senor you ken ease
(doll ling) any troubles
like egg nog gently poured
and unable to move,
or...mebbe trapped by
a white striped tiger who roared
cornered in a spit of jumbled
feeble woodland where
a retinue of wild animals stored
analogously tube he ying
closeted in a mental ward.
not that ye care one whit
boot ta many approximately
72.57 cheesy full moons ago
when me younger days alive
i lived at pennfield manor
where the stern rebuke from robin kratz
faulted disgusting messiness
and angered water bugs
who marched against getting evicted
(where spouse twas
one chaotic rabid follower of entropy
and adherent of utter disorderliness
if such band name of aforementioned
the audience would wave meat cleavers
and as tokens of appreciation,
Day 3 — Love’s Field
Kevin Davis 2025
Before the sun had kissed the sky,
Lady blinked the sleep from her eye.
Buzz stretched his wings, dew on his gear,
And Needles called, “The field is near!”
Out in Love’s Field, wild clover grew,
Magic shimmered in morning dew.
Needles smiled, “No stings today—
Just dance and sing, and laugh and play!”
From the hive came a thunderous hum,
A thousand bees—here they come!
Lady and Buzz both ducked in fright,
But Needles waved, “It’s all right!”
The swarm pulled up beside the tree,
And shouted, “Friends! Come dance with me!
We’ll share the sun, the bloom, the air,
And joy and kindness everywhere!”
They flew to Love’s Field, hearts aglow,
Gold wings gleamed in the morning show.
Buzz’s goggles flashed bright green,
Lady’s shell took on a sheen.
“What’s that voice?” came from the tree,
“Is this for bugs—or birds like me?”
A ruby throat shone in the sun—
Sweety the hummingbird had come.
“I sip from flowers, not from you,
I only drink the nectar dew.”
Lady smiled, “Then join our song!
In Love’s Field, every heart belongs.”
Sweety’s throat began to gleam,
A golden heart, a living dream.
Needles hummed, Buzz laughed aloud,
Lady bowed, the flowers bowed.
Now all four danced beneath the sky,
Their love so bright, the bees flew by.
The clover swayed, the meadow shone,
And kindness made the field their home.
From out the sun came Lady, Buzz,
Needles, Sweety—friends because
They’d found what every heart can do:
Love makes family—pure and true.
What exactly is home and where is it? And why is it vital that we know about 'Home'?
And how will I really know when I have arrived home? Some say that home is the place where one was born.
Others say that it's the place where one's story begins. Is it just a geographical place of origin or something more?
If something more or something less, what's the more or the less?
The main road and railroad tracks were there long before I arrived late summer of 1949. That huge rustic tower overlooking everything and the big seed and fertilizer building where we threw rocks against the coca cola sign are gone forever, and so is the big store in the center of town where we bought ice cream bars and sodas for a dime. Those geographical images of my place of origin are mostly still intact, and the agricultural crops of corn and beans are still being produced, but most of the people are gone.
My childhood friends and relatives, most of whom I have not seen in more than 50 years have all moved North, South, East, and West. And I guess my move west and the scattering of all the rest was best for most because I have never once heard any sounds of protest. I do suppose that the lighting bugs we often saw and the crickets we heard late at night chose to remain.
In my case, I guess when you sum it all up, I'd have to say that home is where your heart is, and I took it with me everywhere I went. I can often hear the ending of a song I heard many years ago. "And I like where I am today and this is where I'll stay". For me, the first part of that line is true, and would to God the second part was too but unfortunately, it holds no promises for me.
06172019PoSoup
This can be hard to talk about
Very difficult to say
But I'd like to tell you what I'd like
Upon my dying day
Could you throw a great big party
A wake to end all wakes
And if there's nothing nice to talk about
Just throw a few lies my way
Stand me in the corner
Prop both my hands up high
So when all my friends come in
I can both wave hello and wave bye, bye
When the parties over
Before I begin to ripe
Fold me up for easy storage
In a cool place that night
In the morning let me ride on top of the car
So I can feel that southern breeze
Before we arrive at the funeral home
Please clean the bugs out of my teeth
When you step up to my golden casket
For one final glance
Don't look past the coat and tie
Cause I wont be wearing any pants
This all sounds fine and dandy
But I have no money for my elaborate plans
So I guess just take me out back to the barbecue pit
Then flush my ashes down the can