Long Bulldoze Poems
Long Bulldoze Poems. Below are the most popular long Bulldoze by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Bulldoze poems by poem length and keyword.
just something fun....
ANDY THE DILLO*
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
In Texas town where sun brightly shone,
Andy the dillo lives, all alone.
He dreamt of a pretty gal,
one who lives in his locale.
Together the dusty trails they’d roam
When pillaging one starry night
he met Astrid, "Oh! you're outta sight"
A quizzical nose had she
“You're perfect dillo for me!
Let’s eat worms together, they’re a delight!"
With a twirl and a tap of her toes,
she showed dance moves that she knows.
'round and 'round she did spin,
with giggles and a grin.
Then he noticed her rather large schnoz.
“EEEGADS! Where did you get that nose?
With it, the ground you can bulldoze
You’re a dillo extraordinaire.
I’ll follow you anywhere.
Let’s go get some worms at Joe’s!”
*Note: Poem originally published in Poetry Soup in June 2025 (poetrysoup.com/poem/andy_the_armadillo_1738645)> I then deleted it. This is my original poem.
Mom is becoming very tired.
She has trouble remembering
The meds Pop takes—and when.
A lot of good it does to remember.
We have found pills all over
Where he cheeks them and
Blows them around the room.
He is bitter and asks,” Why
Is God doing this to me?”
“I’ve tried to be good and kind.
A Christian.”
He called Morris to the room
And asked for the 357,
Knowing he might be the only
One to hear his plea.
Morris denied his wish, and cried.
He called us all one at a time—
And gave us guns from his safe.
Ammunition kept at a distance.
Ralph and I went to the driveway.
“It’s sad,” he said. “Someday
They’ll bulldoze this to the ground.”
“People will forget it was here—
Like we never existed.”
We’ve got to call Hospice,” I said.
Or we’re going to lose them both.”
A final bed.
The decision had been made.
there is an afterlife in these high branches
spirit bears
watch as tracks appear and
vanish
men who walk around trees become women
when the tree is old enough
to seed other wombs
days forgotten and missed
stack up against barbwire fences
the yet to be born
will bulldoze and
unstack
in Thailand we climbed the 200 stone steps
in the heat of the day
monkeys chattered at us from ghost houses
where incense rose
for those who live last moments
the polished stone Buddha
smiles
thanking us for the long trek
tells us
in a thousand languages
that we are but one step on a journey
one that will not be recorded
until we are free of the thought
of being
temple monkeys howl in approval
a power stations electrified guts
spills its timebomb seeds
waits for the last fizzle of
the goners and the becoming
lifetimes lay in state
under rusting backhoes
generations glimmer
aluminum eyes buried deep
in the softening soil
we cannot recall what we were or foresee
what we can be
only keep watching
the layers grow
the mounds rise and fall
as a world excavates time with its
little pink paws
Feeling of absolute brilliance
Power
The amazing power of the soul
What do I do with this feeling?
Power of immense magnitude
What can I do with this?
London streets
The high rise estates of North London
I want the amazing power of the soul
Amazing power
The greatness of 90s NYC
Waterflood
I can't stop this feeling
Never end
Angry revenge
Lifted
A happy soul
Happy nigh of the century
Now everything is misplaced
I will put it all right
Before I am dead
I swear to it
I swear to my soul
Nothing will be the same when I finish
Nothing can survive
In my midsts
My secondary school times in London
Eyes of laughter
Friends all around me
Now everyone has deserted me
I have succession in my blood now
The century has not changed
I am going to change the world
It is only time
Wait when I come
From the hills of the French Alps
From London
From Sheffield
To destroy the old ways
To bring in the new
To bring in revolution
Going on holiday with family
The power of my sword
My inner sword
One eye on the left and right of the sword blade
I am at one wit myself
I will destroy and bulldoze all who get in my way
I am the revolution
Before I am dead
I swear
I will bring change
The power of my sword
I want your soul
November 6th 2018 - election day
Later today after
all votes get cast
post final countdown,
the winning candidates
ought to be known
way before break fast
cometh on the lanced
morrow (for champions),
nonetheless
my fingers and toes crossed,
that those donned diametrically
opposed to establishmentarian
(reed conservative
buttoned down
MAGA stalwarts) deemed
more dangerous than
beastie boys, or
foo fighting, Outkast
sans, these progressive forward
thinking Democratic activists
(purportedly threatening
gerrymandered territory,
where white Anglo Saxon
Protestant hegemony dominates
status quo regarding
dhow ting Thomas Nast
tee Donkeys as
hashtagged by Trump),
I pray these true
purring blue state
representatives clinch,
the majority to oust vast
Republican politicians cowed,
demeaned, and excoriated
for NOT fawning
prince supple lee,
nor paying expected
obeisance as mealy
mouth sycophants, that she
push hilly accede toward
belligerent, execrable,
and incriminating, nee
Machiavellian hot headed,
quasi coiffed,
donned, and puffed que
hair raising bully,
whose vindictive
uber lyft tartly tinged
tongue lashing,
they risk acerbic
punitive un re
lent ting vitriol stemming
from recalcitrance determined
by the fuhrer wannabe
wool shear lee be silenced
unless that bigoted,
"FAKE" man hat
tinned unabashed, unhinged,
and unruly
villainous president we
the village people nominated
to bulldoze zee
American free
dumbs, now made irrelevant!
You couldn't beat down the Irish
Neither the Scots too
What makes you think your royal
Do you believe your blood is blue
In truth you should look for answers
Brought up in a lie since conception
Nothing between those ears
Only corrupt deception
You are no more royal than the dirt on my shoe
Everything you ever touched is open for abuse
Let the bullets fly let the cannons fire
Let them come your way
It's the people's desire
What makes you think you are royal
Do you believe your blood is blue
It's ok you might be forgiven
You are genetically twisted
Past down through your line
Maybe you will see the truth in time
No more desire for any royal line
You sit upon the throne of a lucifarian dream
A puppet to a fallen master
It must be warm on the throne of Lucifer
Your time is up put down your mantle
It's time to bulldoze time to dismantle
Your system is corrupt a satanic inception
Your blood is not blue
It's full of deception.
Executive- My powers are absolute,
thus I am totalitarian.
The legislature and judiciary
are each subservient to my whims.
I pass my bills with attendant
compliance, and interpret my own
terms as the law.
I shut the doors of compassion,
I am very deeply elusive.
I give no room at all to dissent.
I get bloated with the treasures of the nation.
In a leap year's tenure I bulldoze
my way back to my incumbent status.
And when four multiplies two, I impose
a minion to cover my ills.
Legislature- To obnoxious decrees I give my consent.
I inflate yearly forecasts to become opulent.
I am gratified for the cabinet servants' affirmation.
I always my selfish treaties ratify.
I am undoubtedly slavish to executive excesses.
I seek the redress of constituents' grievances
to enlarge my pocket's size.
And above all else, I am largely rubber stamp.
Judiciary- My evasive justice is yours' to reap
if you are a top notch,
whilst I withdraw the distributive
and restorative from insolvents.
I base my interpretations on business
interests,
and make laws for the interests of
a cabal.
Equity and rights are only in my
constitution stated.
But in reality they are no more
than abstract twins.
The sacred laws of our national prospectus
I serve as a weak custodian of,
and weaker still in the face of political
heavyweights.
But with all the lofty responsibilities
I am reverently saddled with,
I can do nothing more than
empower bigwigs because I am weak,
and they are powerful.
The glory of America,
now heats up
with agitation poised
to strike on the brink
sans legislation incites humiliation,
which goads desecration
as fete accompli chink
in armor of Democratic rubric,
constituting capitalistic
ethic, generic iconoclastic,
and jingoistic logic,
nor budging an inch
when mandating masses
swallow his drink
what huff huck –
this belligerent, dominant and
fervent hellraiser doth
bungle in the jungle
decreeing tacit Marshall law
fast as a shutterfly eyewink
as his cosmic crotch grab
doth put Venus under his sway
with his Mercury hill temperament
pitches the orbit of planet Earth
tubby comb out of balance
infected by hiz anti Jew pitter
damnations, excoriations, fulminations
Huzzah sing how whiz derriere
didst Sat urn simultaneously
crushing crucible as an Uranus
indiscriminately plopping
two hundred fifty pounds of flesh
doubling down humming
his favorite Neptune
that dost affect Pluto hoc crass sea
repeating a self coined motto –
I yam almighty, therefore no fink
simply commandeering the reins of control,
a one man military intelligence groupthink
hut triad and true dyed in the wool
rip pug in ant guise zing rogue
rejoicing tuff fool, governing and hoodwink
king the die hard fans of dictatorial,
linkedin and monarchist ink
cube bus thriving on
wielding indomitable aggression
practiced in the Art of the Deal
incorporating an unanticipated jink
iron fist rule reigning down
vis a vis pro pens heave lee
and prop hen city
flashing hiz seal of approval,
which scribbled signature
doth not smooth arctic monkey
serve hay puzzling kink
boot his frenzy to bulldoze
catastrophic, formulaic, and illogic
spells these United States
of America will become hell
in a handbasket worth repeating
with nary a trace of the grit of link
kin, the sixteenth president,
(whose ruggedly pioneering frontier existence)
found him steady and strong,
plus soft hearted as pelt o’ mink
the epitome of this forty fifth
elected commander in mischief.
When the long journey on foot is over and
the refugee drops in a tent and has hot meal, is peace;
when he puffed his first smoke in weeks, is peace;
when the sky celebrates his arrival with rain, is peace;
when he has finally ability to take a shower, is peace;
when he fixes the tear in the tent with tape, is peace;
when he smashes a scorpion on his blanket, is peace;
when he hears his wife and children about to join him, is peace;
when the news of cease-fire and end of bloodshed spreads, is peace;
when the camp is upgraded with toilets, is peace;
when he makes love with his wife after a long time, is peace;
when his kids are sound sleep and dreaming, is peace;
when he and others challenge the authorities to disperse, is peace;
when they bulldoze the camp and it's desolated, is peace.
The grand, half-ruined Parthenon,
once a sublime, Doric grace,
Even now, in broken, stone blocks,
always takes my breath away.
The rich, classical detail,
fluted columns without plinths,
to imagine what it once was,
the mind can’t even begin…
That towering Coliseum,
the great masterpiece of Rome,
even half gone it’s staggering,
to be so tall, but made in stone.
Go down to the domed Pantheon,
still so perfect to this day,
these are not just random buildings,
they stand with something to say.
And those long, Gothic cathedrals,
so ornate and yet so light,
stained glass alone is enough
to make these churches a sight!
But all of that fine tracery,
those magnificent cravings,
the rows of flying buttresses,
inspire the soul to sing.
The Byzantines and their tiles,
Tudor masonry and wood,
Romanesque with its arches,
Art Decco looks oh-so-good,
Baroque with all its fussiness,
Victorians with their quirks,
Renaissance sports Italian flare,
Palladian’s subtle pleasures…
And yet in Albany, New York,
there stands the featureless ‘egg,’
That’s its name and its resemblance,
I am not pulling your leg.
No decoration, no windows,
as it stands there in the sun,
people call it ‘modernist,’
I call it ‘concrete abortion.’
Worse is the post-modern trash,
theaters shaped like hunks of cheese,
painted pink, spattered with portholes,
a mad-man’s monstrosity.
That is the product of our skills?
That is how we would inspire?
By building things that look like they
have been melted in a fire?!
They bulldoze down our heritage
to throw up more of these things?
And the big-wigs who approved this,
what the hell are you thinking?!
If these buildings of the future
are to have no beauty or class,
then you can keep ‘modernity,’
I’ll gladly live in the past.