Long Cackle Poems
Long Cackle Poems. Below are the most popular long Cackle by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Cackle poems by poem length and keyword.
The summer has thickened,
it has turned the hare into a dervish,
the raccoon to a pantomime villain,
made mice sing in the beaks of owls.
The woods are bare now
trees rattle, grackles cackle,
blue Ice chimes in the deep freeze.
Witches flirt and flit
They have skeleton corsets,
they ride upon racks of lamb.
Their mousy, grey moon petticoats
are tattered by thorns.
By December the land crunches
under tread, the snow creaks
like a an unearthed catacomb.
Reckless children are lost
In the rumors of dark folktales.
The year turns, tinder burns,
lovers remember an inner climate
where limbs blush
when kissed by a kindness
as soft as sunlit rain.
Now and then, and yet again,
clouds circle a bright fanlight
of sky.
Seasons return only to sail
on by.
Tried writing stuff of a serious nature
Just knew it wasn't for me
Dabbled a bit but I just couldn't hack it
A humorist is all I'll be
It's not exclusive, still write about love
Some about conflict and war
But I'd rather write about a sorry dude
Slipped on a banana peel and swore
Don't call me Burns or Shelley or Keats
Prefer ones that make me cackle
Guess you could call me low brow poet
Causing one's tail to waggle
Was born with a silver spoon in my mouth
Fortunate when so many struggle
Don't call me down, it wasn't a choice
Much like the law of the jungle
The luck of the draw, whatever you call it
Really didn't have much of a say
I was truly a product of World War II years
Still happy to this very day
© Jack Ellison 2015
They arrived on broomsticks
Cackling in a disturbingly knowing way.
Their men hid in the man cave
With their wives’ father.
How did you happen to have nine girls?
One asked his father-in-law.
He could not hear him
Because of the loud cackle laughter from the kitchen.
The TV was at full volume too
Which did not lead to any conversation
So they drank beer, trying not to think
About what the women were doing in the kitchen
Typical Sunday for all ten of them
Seeing their fate for the next fifty years
Luckily there was a refrigerator down there
Full of beer and snacks fit for ten kings.
The Girl Who Cried “Death”
The most special woman
To ever walk this world,
Well, she’s died quite young,
This, I am told.
For the ash in her breath
Echos screams, melts her death.
And her lover screams out loud,
But, I am told, she makes no sound.
For in the cracks between dreams,
She slips in between.
And no one can listen,
To her, so it seems.
Because who wants to be
With the Girl who Cried “Death?”
And can friends and family
Get a wide enough breadth?
Death has been her constant
Since she was a child.
And the whole village
Always thought her wicked and wild.
The clouds o’er head
Echoed her mind’s greatest dread.
That her single thread
That kept her most sane;
Death would take her love
Before her brain
Collapsed to the ground.
‘Mong the bees and the flies
And ‘mong the soil,
Watered fresh from the skies,
Buried ‘neath it, she lies.
For their Kings and their Queens
Up there on their thrones, they could tame
The mightiest of paws;
The most fearsome of game.
So that the winter plague,
Filled with Death and visions vague;
Destroyed even King
As he lost his loved Queen.
Soon winter won the game.
Now, she joins me in the Tower,
Watches bells toll the hour;
I cackle again, she has failed.
And upon the King’s breath
Fizzing out with the snow,
She gathers her robes
And she bent her head low.
And she screamed her last ails.
For he would go
To heaven, you see,
And she was left
All alone here with me.
Well, I guess they learned their lesson,
Because this time they didn’t listen,
To the girl who cried “Death.”
For she reaps what she sow.
But I’d never do that to her, do you see??
But Death flitters by, he doesn’t trust me.
As I join the Queens by and by,
Into their fresh tea,
They let out a loud cry.
I wonder if she can hear their last breath.
But I pray that she can’t
As Death’s curtain closes,
The Queens join hand,
As they throw Death’s white roses.
I take my nightly bow.
But what of that wild girl
Whom Death flits between?
And what of her lover?
So gentle, so sanguine?
She is safe from Death for now.
Well, this is not a story,
For that girl, she is me.
And her lover, well, she
Will remain a myst’ry.
But Death has her on his list;
Do you see?
It’s cemented and written
Just ‘bove her right brow.
They'll never allow you to believe this, but...
You didn't lose because you're a woman
or because you're a person of color.
You may have lost because you had
no clear vision or concrete message
For ALL of the citizens.
You may have lost because you ignored the porous border.
Mixed in with innocent refugees
are criminals, cartels, and fentanyl.
You sacrificed our sovereignty and safety
for illegitimate votes and a favorable census.
You may have lost because you dismissed the middle class....
In so many words called us racist trash.
Clumping the blue-collar woman and man with radical elements.
You never considered or addressed the mayhem of runaway inflation.
You may have lost when your boss stumbled.
Then you tossed him into the trash.
You never earned a vote from your constituents.
You plucked the crown from your former king.
You saw yourself as the second coming.
Most saw it as the coup of shallow victory.
You may have lost because you didn't meet with our most loyal Ally
during his nation's darkest moment.
Instead, you partied at a sorority event.
During the Floyd riots, you helped set up a fund for violent rioters.
Ignoring the victims of the rioting.
You wanted to defund the police while blood flowed freely
down our streets.
In short, you met 76 million desperate voices
with word salad, disrespect, and a dismissive cackle.
If you had put we, the people, first.
I would have been proud to call you,
Madam President.
“Nobody likes a clown at midnight.” Stephen King
CLOWN AT THE ABYSS
Darkroom abscessed
with neon blush and black-blood —
sunken eyes look surprised
to find oneself in a dank dungeon.
Fecal stench, not humorous,
screams on each bold painted-on face.
“Are we dead?”
“When did I die?”
“I didn’t want to take along this honking nose! It never quits!”
“These humongous shoes, like flippers, so cold they grip!”
The clowns, their smiles and frowns,
continue to gripe in the big tent abyss.
The epic fail of their lives an applause
from the demons who have them in grip.
Like fools, they suppose, they can feel their way out.
They march in one straight line with clanging chains,
chortling, “Heigh Ho! Heigh Ho! It’s off to work I go!”*
You see, they can’t help being funny - never could.
So on they march clinging to claustrophobic walls.
Yet they, one by one, begin to notice no floor exists.
Squalid birds, their chains rattle and roll,
with cheap jokes that never cease.
“Take my wife…please.”
Rings through the air. The demons cackle and boo
their despair, occasionally deflating the roof of the tent
on their heads - it sticks to their gooey faces, causing
them to run out of hot air, go limp, confine their space
even more - no audience to exploit. When the roof rises
each one finds water caterwauled at their faces, then
strapped to a chair as sufferable makeup - acidophil -
leaks behind their eyes, into their pores, maliciously.
Clown at the abyss digs his nails into the soil, climbing
a mountain of ill will, always failing...falling, and then
the jokes hammer again...over and over, head over heels.
...head over heels,
with no end…
2/27/2020
Clown at the Abyss Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Kai Michael Neumann
*Disney’s Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs
First Date
Babe,
I would shoot cupids arrow in your bulls-eye
He says with rally caps in his eyes
... you what?
Her eyes blink
Her breathing stops
The first date emitting a moan
For the better or worse, a passerby muses
A coy laugh snaking from his lips
She shows her teeth
Balls her fist
Gives the passerby a chop in the ribs
And then the pond of ducks quaked and sky
Drinks atop the bar scatter
Like feathers thrown in the air
Patrons then move closer to their campfire
This is good, one says
Reminds me of how I baited my wife
Or is that banged?
A cackle a laughs follow
Throw another log on the fire, miss
Please
She looked over and just blinked
Men
connie pachecho
7/20/17
The Cunning Stranger at Dragon's Lair - A Narrative Poem
One day at a comic shop,
I met a man selling cats,
For the money, he wanted to swap,
But I really wanted some bats.
"Got any bats?" asked I.
"For that's how I'll spend my money (wow)."
"No bats here!" said the guy.
He seemed to find it quite funny.
This ain’t no zoo or pet store!
"We've got some interesting comics,
I'll give you a very fine price."
"I'd rather have some ergonomics."
The man blinked rapidly thrice.
The store owner said I got Batman # 7;
The man said I’d rather have rabies.
The man seemed exceptionally energetic,
And his manner was strangely amused.
He wasn't what I would call acetic,
The great disdain he noticeably oozed.
Like others, he thought I was odd,
Some say I'm a bit cunning.
Still, he gave me a courteous nod,
As if he thought I was plenty stunning.
In his hand was Spider-man # 5.
In mint condition worth $1.000.00, what a fine;
So in search of my goal I departed,
But before the comic shop could I leave,
The man came running full-hearted,
"I can help you I believe."
"Cats, bats, you shall not find.
Comics, ergonomics, you can get.
You must now open your mind,
And get down to Dragon's Lair Comics.
So to Dragon's Lair Comics, I decided to go,
In search of the bats, I craved.
The winds it did eerily blow.
But I felt that the day could be saved.
There were stalls selling comics,
Role-playing cards many heroes shades.
There were even stalls selling home economics
People were scattered from many trades
I was greeted by a peculiar lady,
She seemed to be rather cunning
I couldn't help thinking she might be quite shady.
I wondered if she was at all stunning.
Before I could open my mouth,
She shouted, "For you, I have some bats!"
I headed towards her, to the south,
Past some comics and cats.
"But how did you know?" I asked,
"Do you want them or not?" she did say.
Silently, the bats she passed.
Then vanished before I could pay.
As I walked away I heard a crackle
Or was it, perhaps, a hushed cackle?
Next door to the comic shop Acme Pet Store?
For you see a pet bat, not a cat or a comic was I looking for
6/6/19
Written words by James Edward Lee Sr.
Earthquakes of bedlam quell
As tectonic plates of emotional instability cease shifting.
The tears of a discarded clown, suspended in animation—
Numbness overtakes.
Masks slip, shattering.
Shards scrape, lacerating apathetic flesh,
Revealing the painted doll underneath.
Remove its colourful costume;
Discover marionette strings embedded within a fraying back.
Strip the howling voices from its waking nightmares.
Feel deadening voids devour any morsel left of a wounded heart,
Whilst balmy plasma metamorphoses into gelid hemoglobin,
Hardening undying devotion into frigid detest.
Titanium walls, reinforced with razor wire, barricade a hollow soul.
For she was mere amusement for the indoctrinated masses—
An illusion of happiness, playing day in and day out.
Listen, as her inviting laugh transmutes into the cackle of hyenas.
Watch the paint, plastered upon an unwilling face, crack one last time.
Her eleventh hour has arrived.
Bear witness to the merciless statuette you birthed.
Young harlot is the most honest of all
a fist of coins for a dollop of flesh
more honest than the soil and rain
that turn opera into palettes of cackle
blood blossoms sprouting from grayness.
Some Johns offer flowers or budget cigarettes.
A bouquet of mirrors and cancer-she thinks.
While she nibbles the stems off their souls.
The tongue - her pungent weapon of brevity.
Old harlot is the least honest of all.
Masking a puffy face with budget smiles.
Holding flesh together with time's disintegration.
Flecks of waning stardust minced by gravity.
A ball of yellowing yarn-beneath whirling paws.