Long Canny Poems
Long Canny Poems. Below are the most popular long Canny by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Canny poems by poem length and keyword.
Should I wear myself off in tears?
Should I get myself lost with beer?
Should I dare consult the seers
for the loss of a comely dear?
Can I live onwards with this fear
that your voice I may no longer hear?
Will our friendship be just mere
now that you're no longer near?
My tears flow because it cannot stand
when death gives a blow with its icy hand.
Moments with you is now a deserted land,
much more like a desert without sand.
It’s not possible to buy life with money.
It’s incredible you left earlier for this lonely journey.
It’s a blow and a surprise to me and the many
that death does not respect even the canny.
How I wish you had stayed with me longer
at least for a little while;
then we can share more moments together
as I enjoy more of your smile.
My lovely dearie, rest in peace.
Rest in peace in the bosom of Father Abraham.
My prayer is that you be kept in a place;
a place safe and devoid of every harm.
Whatever happened to the twelve o ‘clock rambler,
nocturnal venturesome brushstroke sort,
they paint sound and city pastel,
never at a loss for inspiration,
weather neither bar nor barrier,
in the face of whirlwind snowfall,
freezing ice, torrential downpour,
within themselves, he, she, they plod on,
hardship is adopted, never cast aside,
while others brazenly squirm,
wallow in uproarious denial,
wilt before the slightest storm,
taking flight in arid comfort zone,
shelter is their first convenient port,
not for stoic diarist this threadbare exit,
exodus of the half-hearted humbug,
but ironclad ilk stubbornly remain,
eyes and ears are substitute antennas,
alert does not begin an ample portrait,
of this wilful dwindling genus,
genus, genie, genius, glow worm ghost,
peaceful prowlers with pen on queue,
they capture worlds sidereal,
under velvet moon imagining bespoke,
crescendo of cathartic bonhomie,
icy night frost punctured by high drive fog horns,
deft nib from dark ink manteau nomad,
who engross themselves in light and shade reflection,
how magical their canny weave lexicon,
for us timid souls to relish evermore,
as we balk at the eerie life we revel in,
vicarious the kismet, excitement from afar,
drama under bridges, shadow figure chinwag,
river stream babble, blind alley gust,
eavesdrop on historic past teaser,
litter swept aural gossip whoosh,
eventide mournful dog bark heart tug,
darting elfin’s sly mind peep thereon,
yet the vagabond minstrel has to comb,
each backstreet, zebra crossing, sprawling suburb,
for inert sleepy after hour dozers,
who crave eye candy fodder as humdrum sidestep
The canny hitman wears many faces
His smiling face he calls democracy
Were you to hear him chanting..
You would be forgiven to believe
Freedoms.. rights, democracy..
He utters and funds yet.. SEE
Do you SEE your fallen statesman
Your struggling economy..
Your puppet H.E The president
The Hitman leeching the economy dry
Where will we sell our wares is SHE falls
SHE buys gold, silver linen, and all niceties
Where will we sell our wares ooh hunter
If the hitman becomes the hunted..
If shes smoldering in ashes will they
All weep.. you clothed yourself in finery
Said I am a QUEEN I will weep not...
You held sway ruled with an iron grip
Those stars I see on your turban...
It's rumored you plucked from the skies
Trampled like a rag.. and on your back..
How you love to SOAR.. what kind of being
What kind of BEAST of prey are you.. but
Will we weep when your judgment knocks
With your sin-cup full should we then proclaim
Come out of her my people lest you share..
In her FIERY torment when HER Judgement is read
Did someone say you now lookS like a SHARK...
Did you rise from the waters or do you sit on...
The prophesied, Waters, peoples races nations
The economic hitman offers a friendly handshake
In her labs, she is breeding virulent virus..
Extermination of others is her business parcel
Yet the ignorant mesmerized ignoramus
Claim they rule.. they are all bound in chains
The system, the system, chants the Rasta...
Babylonian systems chant down.. Rasta chants
Mary Jane Joint now lights
Where did we go so wrong
Passing Janja weed Ronny..
I will call you my servant SILA see..
Calling a bird of prey from the east
Zerubbabel YOU will rebuild my temple
Zerubbabel YOU will accomplish..
The divine purpose bestowed in YOU
#Bubble in time
Luis 2020 Feb 28.
Good old days,
Our ancestors finished wise,
Furnishing humor still to laugh at,
Small in number but beautiful and humble,
In small,small communities like birds,
Every person had a name since birth,
But all similar,difficult to come familiar,
Confused in the usage of names,
They picked some nicknames like icing over cake,
To ease the identity signatures in case,
The nicknames kicked fading his name,
It carried reasons fit to all seasons,
Cat,one lazy,
Goat,one engaged in gossips,
Fox,one very canny,
Bull,one useful,
Rat,who steals,
Snake,who is always in anger,
Chicken,one who sells chicks,
Bear,who is in dark complexion,
The village today like a zoo!
Name men's but nicknames animals bear,
The ancestors fallen and turned into dust today,
Their master minds stand tall and still intact!
5/20/17
Regardless of if I never get to see or reach the grand finale
Doing not too shabby
I may not exactly
Be all that happy
Yet when things turn out badly and sadly
Can't stay feeling crappy
Memory occasionally somewhat foggy and patchy
Not trying to be too wacky
Or flashy
Just want to be more crafty
Handy
And canny
Take care of my granny
And the rest of the family
Stock up the pantry
Pour them some brandy
And buy some domestic and foreign candy
Serve them food first and myself lastly
And appreciate the simple things, not just what is fancy
Near and far from any valley
As well as waters with or without algae
I am not familiar with necromancy
And have no idea if we are related to chimpanzees
The age is creeping, very slow and cunning
There’s no defense or is there, canny one?
Look back, and the results are stunning
Gee, brother, show you how it’s done
Bring back flashbacks, books, summers of sunshine
Of days gone by, I’m clinging to them all
The fading colors, they are friends of mine
Few frames of time hanging on the wall
I long for yore of better TV dramas
Don’t made no more nowadays’ in Hollywood
And sweetest food, in kitchen known as “Mama’s”
From age way back I know as childhood
Can’t stand the music now, it is so weird ’n wacky
There was a beat I loved when I was teen
Where is that vinyl, I am so lucky
To have it, still, the best that’s ever been
Remember friendships, games, shyness, laughter
The girl, the crush, rejection hurtin’ pride
Brings faint smile, fifty years after
And how she has become your most precious bride
The kids have grown and house creaks mature
The movie’s on, it’s called “My own flying life”
Look back, the story has matured
And think the plot has been emotion-rife
With all these memories, imprinted, yours alone
Be shared or just kept with lock and key
Oh, silly days of corner old payphone
And huge fir tree, so short when you were three
Nostalgia, yearning, pains, glee and wonder
This wasn’t bad, hey, screw the crazy race
What’s left are miles, Earth expanse to wander
And slightly creased but still familiar face
Look back and find peace eternal
What was important once is less so, that’s the truth
Recall, re-live, remember times vernal
We all grow older hiding former youth
Look back and all regrets be perished
You made the best of toy construction set
Be left with tales, ours to be cherished
When noise is gone and middle age onset
February 7, 2026
Knots-besotted
(too canny for a granny)
as sailors go (and they will)
of which I am (still) one
(when day is done)
I can bend a bowline
(from stern to stem)
with the best of them
(just so's you knows...
the rabbit out of the hole comes
'round the tree runs then back down goes)
and tie (not hit) a reef (or square) so fine
or (none too sheepishly)
yank a sheepshank
in a (fairly hefty) hank of line
also (if it's not too late)
do a (non-binding) figure eight
(with half a minding) to stop the rope
from sliding (I hope)
(and/or) fraying
to (defray the cost)
for new cordage paying
(in time a stitch)
yet there's one more which
(so all's not lost)
(clever clogs) calls a clove hitch
she came from Carlow, wee caitlin girl
one of three sisters gave you a twirl
ancient bridge, river Barrow
she was long, very narrow
still glimpse her glance where wild waters swirl
legend of Dublin lived all alone
yes, you guessed, it's our Molly Malone
Howth to Dun Laoghaire
she hobbled home weary
heaving her wheel-barrow, skin and bone
bareback beauty from Kildare of course
the equine county, she rode a horse
the Curragh and Church of Oak
Hill of Allen, she met a bloke
fell from her mount far into the gorse
wee ossory cat from Kilkenny
he lived in a castle with many
his marbles were off the grid
on festival floors they slid
lost them all, he couldn't find any
sad lad from Laois, brains short of an ounce
escaped from prison hard to pronounce
nailed tight down inside a crate
trickling blood betrayed his fate
men with batons were ready to pounce
canny Longford Lil made you quiver
banjo playing by Camlin River
laid-back lady, bluegrass hair
fortress town and country fair
tickled and plucked she did deliver
this talkative halyon hailed from Louth
he robbed two banks then headed down south
stopped at Dundalk to have a drink
garda grabbed him in a blink
that Drogheda gaol did shut his mouth
Meath mini minx, curious and slim
from Navan or Kells or was it Trim?
crawled into a passage-grave
all by herself, very brave
one leg out, you can still see her limb!
tall Tullamore youth from Offaly
he played around so awfully
he zoomed right in on Zara
next kissed his cousin Clara
then cuddled Brosna unlawfully
Westmeath chancer in boot of his car
some hooch for the folk of Mullingar
for Athlone, fancier grog
illegal still from the bog
smooth smiling man who smoked a cigar
wretched banshee on the Wexford beach
collecting pebbles within her reach
the sea then stole her ardour
he left from Rosslare harbour
lifting her eyes she started to screech!
wild Wicklow wag went out to play
the Arklow shoreline and on to Bray
Sugarloaf, Lugnaquilla
Glendalough, wee tequila
back to Greystones, he's had a good day
Every time I tune the radio I hear a feller's plaintive song,
About his achin' heart and how his womans "done him wrong!"
How he nurses his plight at the neighborhood saloon,
Wallowin' in commiseration with those he can commune!
Singers with voices quiverin' like Robin Hood's twangy bow,
Tell of bein' forsaken by their man and all its kindred woe!
And how she's gonna lower the boom on a broad name Hildebrun,
Who stole her man while slingin' hash at the local Greasy Spoon!
Others sing of forlorn love and lack of decent shoes,
While he blows his meager pay on soiled doves and rancid booze.
How he spends his nights in a honky-tonk at the edge of town,
Consortin' with other guys' wives and tossin' whiskey down!
Others warble about him blowin' grocery money at the casino,
And if he don't toe the line she's headin' for a split in Reno!
He swears on bended knee he'll straighten up and fly right,
But he blows his paycheck again the very next Friday night!
I cannot fathom such tales of misery, mush and woe,
(Tho' I reckon it keeps canny song writers rollin' in the dough!)
Maybe I should try my hand at composin' such a song,
About hapless lovers who claim "they done me wrong!"
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
(© All Rights Reserved)
I came to walk and sit beside a gentle babbling brook.
Every nook and cranny deserves a closer prod and look.
It was uncanny where secrets hid unseen from the naked eye.
Until a gentle nudge uncovered treasures waiting nearby.
I probed to look far beyond the smooth stone faces.
Into the spaces between the cobbles, into their hidden places.
For canny people know that gold is found where fractures part.
They follow the cracks that lead onward to a broken heart.
So, by hook or by crook, every crack deserves its chance.
Every flaw needs far more than a quick sideways glance.
For gold dust never gathers in the nook of a perfect thing.
It waits until brokenness, finds its voice, and learns to sing.
The crannies and cracks let the daylight gleam through.
They ask to not be hidden away, nor discarded from view.
With patient hands, each fracture is traced with gold—
Until the cracked and broken become precious and bold.