Long Chook Poems
Long Chook Poems. Below are the most popular long Chook by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Chook poems by poem length and keyword.
“I wish the ferry had a fairy,” said Phoebe with a frown
to no one in particular (but everyone remembered later on).
That’s a strange thing to say on an excursion in Year 5,
especially when the teachers are around.
Eating hot chips on the seat just up from me,
a skinny man avoids my longing stare (Those chips of his, I wish were mine).
I hear a funny squawk. It isn’t me -
Chip-wishing seagulls probably, somewhere (I probably shouldn’t stare).
I cool my wishful eyes in harbour waves of green.
(The shore has nothing interesting to see –
No animals, I mean. Look -
Just - more - green.)
I hear a funny squawk. It’s under me!
No, it’s not a fairy penguin (as you may have been expecting).
“It’s a chook!” I scream…
…I scream = ice-cream…mmm…
I close my eyes and dream,
open one eye, have a sneaky look…It’s still a chook.
A bloke who hails
from New South Wales
will know of Gundagai.
Some guy found gold,
or so we're told,
in days now long gone by.
I grew up there
without a care
when both of us were nippers:
she was my mate -
her name was Kate -
I used to call her "Kipper".
We loved to lark
around Yarn Park,
and sing Frank Ifield songs,
play hide-and-seek
on Morley's Creek
all golden summer long.
I'd glance at Kip
(she fielded slip)
and try to hoist one high:
but quick as thought
she'd yell out, "Caught!"
or "Nice try, Gundagai!"
Her brain was quick,
her wit was slick,
and ready with a joke.
She'd bat and bowl
and kick field goals
as good as any bloke.
Well, time moved on.
Those days are gone,
and never to return.
I've roamed this earth,
for what it's worth,
and one thing I have learned.
In this wide world
there's heaps of girls,
and some of 'em are ripper,
and dark or fair,
I've had my share,
but none of 'em's like Kipper.
I'm not that grand
with pen in hand,
but I've written Kip a letter:
I may be wrong,
it's been so long.
She may not even get 'er.
So now you know
the way it goes.
You've heard my tale unfold.
I'm like those fools
with sieves and mules,
hell bent on striking gold.
I'm a chafing chook
on tenterhooks,
awaiting her reply.
I know my Kip -
she's sure to quip,
"Oh, nice try, Gundagai!"
The chook house
stood empty for most
of my childhood.
An enclosed corrugated iron
shed was surrounded
by a wire fence
and a wooden gate
held on by one rusty hinge.
Inside was small
and cramped, just big enough
to hold a seven year old
and keep out
the rest of the world.
Daddy long leg spiders
guarded its inner twilight,
webs were strung
like trip wires to snare
an unwary soul.
Wounded I would seek
refuge there, safe
in its dark womb. Huddled
in silence, only a thin
umbilical of light
connected me to the outside
through a nail hole
in the roof. No-one knew
I was there.
After seventy years
I still preserve the space,
keep it hidden
in a corner of my mind.
When the world
gets too much
I make myself small
and go there.
Our granddaughters breed chickens,
On their property
They are not for finger-licking
Nor bred for KFC.
They are all unusual,
Superior, elite,
They strut around the property,
On their spotlessly clean feet
Our granddaughters love them dearly,
And they all have posh names,
You can see very clearly,
That they are individual, not the same.
Some stay cute and fluffy,
Even when they are old
Some are vain and huffy,
Who think their feathers are tinged with gold
They are fussy about who they mix with
Those chooks that don't come up to scratch,
Imagine being called a chook.
Who could possibly live with that?
But...
These maiden hens don't rule the roost,
Although most think they should
They don't have the right equipment,
And so there is no way that they could.
Enter the Cockerel
The ruler of the roost
King of the hen house
Whose ego needs a boost
A Magnificent bird
Handsome and huge in every way.
He wears a coat of many colours,
And has come out to play.
The hen maidens get eggcited,
When this gorgeous fowl they see
Silently, they gather round.
Thinking, will he choose me?
While enjoying this adoration
His Highness surveyed the scene,
Was this his imagination
Or were they the purest birds he'd seen?
He set to work eventually,
Impregnating everyone.
Our Granddaughters were overjoyed.
And all agreed it was a job well done!
Spotted dress respectable knee length
Disguises her many feathered fetishes
Fecked feeling clucky, red hen strength
Broods on bed of egg beak wet wishes
Wings tuck tight within delicate dreams
Shell inhibits image of sloppy slack yolk
Tiny tapping tells a time arrived redeems
Ruptured glue leak nesting box will soak
Eggy Peggy Sue oogles roosters commit
White eruption risen warm oven can cook
Pyriforms produced cushion a faithful sit
Cracked careless spill beneath silly chook
Attired in cabaret shake head resplendent
Requires stupid roosters follow new rules
Delicious derived from proud independent
Boss of her box where boys beg for jewels
10th January
Hen Sanctuary