Long Bulldog Poems
Long Bulldog Poems. Below are the most popular long Bulldog by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Bulldog poems by poem length and keyword.
There are no more shackles and no more chains
The muzzle is gone, like Trump’s derailed train
Naptime is over, and this bulldog is up
When will you learn to behave, you silly pup
If you keep poking the dog, he will take a bite
You should be aware he’s not afraid to fight
This growling dog is not your average hound
He patrols day and night, guarding this ground
And doesn’t care if the so-called law was sent
His opinions, like yours, are fetid excrement
I think you two make quite a querulous pair
You both stir the soup pot and blow hot air
You’re not great poets, I’ve seen your best
If you mess with the bull… you know the rest.
The bulldog said to the poodle...
"Wow!"..."What a fancy treat!"
"Today you ain't so lucky",
"I'm the king on this street!"
"Looks like you lost your way",
"Now ain't you clean and pretty!"
"You're 'bout to be a mangled mess",
"My oh my, what a pity!"
The little pooch shook with fear,
He found not the courage to talk;
The bulldog was suddenly whisked away,
As the poodle stood alone on the walk!
Nabbed by the local catcher,
The bulldog lost his might;
He could only sit in silence,
While the poodle shivered with fright!
The dog catcher said to the poodle...
"Today's your lucky day!"
"Judging by the tags on your collar",
"Home's just a block away!"
"Don't be afraid, little fella!"
"No more will you be alone!"
So off she sped with the poodle,
Returning him safely home!
The world's filled with bullies,
Whether it's wealth, power, or size;
The Lord sends His angels to protect us,
While our enemies lurk in disguise!
When they're gone, they're gone.
Ten thousand yesterdays march off
To darkness and memory.
We stand on the small island of the present
The future flows towards us,
Becoming the past.
She was home from Freshman Year,
But almost never stayed.
We saw her in flashes,
Between work, friends, romance and dramas.
She has her life, and lives it full;
There are no regrets.
Our son marries;
Between hot flashes my wife starts a new career
Parents age and worry
I paint and write and try to be worthy
Of my gifted life.
Change is constant,
Everything evolves relelentlessly
Time flies or crawls, but always moves
All is tied together
By the invisible webs of love we weave.
Come Sunday, back to school.
That's life:
Lightning flashes,
Sewn together with love.
A shanty-man from a shanty-town came by shanty-boat to Shanty-Round.
He was the newest man in this Shanty-village, we felt was a town.
His middle was solid and amazingly thick.
And his hairy neck was blistered, and brick-like, this Nick.
His face and hair were golden, and he wore an enormously big gun.
Some thought they were pretty tough, until he entered, so raw and rough.
He came into the popular local shanty-pub yelling for Freddy Lou Stone.
Some of the regulars and my wimpy cousins ran out, scared of his tone.
Freddy and Nicky were adopted fraternal twins, who had since birth, frankly never met.
Each chopped wood for a living, married young, had two kids, and had a bulldog for a pet.
They sat in that bar laughing at story upon joke, until a quarter until three.
Two shanty men from shanty towns and the bartender, little old story-telling me.
In late on a late night from a long journey,
Barely in the door
She's telling funny stories of her own misfortunes.
A comedy of errors that harried her homewards.
The young woman who will always be our child
Has the lot of us laughing
When we should be asleep
At things that would've driven others
To fury or despair
But those have no hold on her,
Because bulldogs don't give up -
They just hold on.
So now she's holding on again -
A new grownup
In a too grownup world.
Schooltime over;
Lessons now born from living.
- But that's all right,
Because biting down, holding fast
Is what she does -
She's gonna chew this bone too,
The tough white bone of adulthood,
Down to a pile of fine, digestible dust
She'll make it all her own
The while she works it.
Sunday Morning blues
RIO DE JANEIRO all nights or LAS VEGAS nightlife
After two-three glasses of Twisted Ice Lemon
Or was it an Alabama Slammer? You mustn’t trust!
My days and nights felt like a Freight train ride
And that no lie!
Then I remember the Cuban Bulldog who bite me
Three years ago, in Kissimmee; I think
which left me more than a little weak
in the knees those feisty drinks
Or was it that wicked, wacky Long Island Ice coffee
Which almost has done me in?
after watching a news clips of Momar Kadafi
or was it an episode of Friends
Luckily, for me I met my sweet Marlin Brando
And it was hallelujah and Amen in Key Largo
So many bartenders, so many smokes filled rooms
So, once again here I am nursing
Another Sunday mornings blues.
My soul had long been troubled...
by hatred,
dejectIon
and contempt.
They were the poisons
that flowed red in my veins,
burning like wildfire from my head to my toes,
as if this world were inhabited by demons:
that have teeth instead of fangs,
tongues instead of flickers,
and take delight in loading tears with sorrow.
But from that day you responded to my greetings,
the heavy burden life placed on my mind...
was lifted by your single show of love,
such that I am full of smIles,
joy and grace.
Your love is the lubricant:
that greased the torpedoes
fired from the mouth of haters...
the balm that soothes
the wounds my foes inflicted...
a calm for all my affliction.
You became my protective shield ~
that the fashioned weapons of enemies
became like blunt sticks...
landing with no impact,
no pain,
no repercussions —
more of a toothless bulldog.
My machine needs more of your lubricant, sweet baby,
be my lifeblood,
giving a kiss without a hiss,
that invisible driver
that rolls sorrow into the abyss,
needing no assist to resist ~
evil over good —
an emolument as my emollient.
I can't just be insouciant
to your love being my life's lubricant.
It is like trying to recant
all the toxicants
that hatred had previously injected in my life.
So let the lubrication
brought to oil the machine of my love
never dry,
let it run through my system:
cleansing every trace of hatred left behind.
Reborn my soul.
Redefine my purpose...
my eternal lubricant.
Face flush with cold,
She comes, wind laughing at her back
Across our threshold once more,
In moments it is as though she'd never left.
Every room brightens with her Prescence.
She moves here and there in her easy ways,
Dispelling discontents with artless word as drops of oil
Disperse across a still lake
She is fully unconscious of her gifts,
So they radiate from her with undiminished power.
Now, exhausted from relentless work and scholarship
She lies asprawl on her old bed,
Dear old cat cradled in one arm,
Cooing softly in her sleep like a dove,
Just as she did when small,
Eternal yesterdays ago.
What can I do with that,
Save retire to my own room and glow?
The Bulldog leashed, back in his yard.
It's time for rest, he played his card.
The job at hand, has now been done.
He now shows peace, for everyone.
Be still young heart, you've earned your rest.
You fought the fight, you gave your best.
Peaceful thoughts, they now will reign.
We now can write, all free from pain.
The noble ones, they lay and wait.
Behind the scenes, they watch their bait.
They watch and wait recording all.
They may be quiet, but fake the fall.
Enjoy the Sun, this Dog's forecast.
Enjoy this treaty, I hope to last.
This loyal friend, knows not surprise.
The Bulldog keeps, a watchful eye.
Heard an old Beatles song the other day and it stayed on my mind, mixed with a little insomnia. The following leaked out.
.
“Echoes of Midnight Sheepdog Call”
.
Hey little lost sheepdog,
You better find your way back home.
Little lost sheepdog,
You’ve been on the run too long.
The sun is sinking low,
And the air is growing cold.
Little lost sheepdog,
Are you feeling all alone?
I know you’re not afraid of the big bad wolf.
You never even gave him a second look.
He’s hiding in sheep’s clothing,
Blending with the flock down by the brook.
The flock has been without you for so long.
They don’t know when you left or where you’ve gone.
Or if you’re by chance ever coming home.
The wolf has convinced them that they’re oh so very strong.
He’s been a liar all along.
Little lost sheepdog you’re needed back at home.
The Shepherd,
Is calling you again.
You can talk to Him.
You can talk to Him.
Don’t be the sheepdog, standing in the rain.
Bulldog. You’re doing it again?
Bulldog. You’re doing it again.