Long Chop chop Poems
Long Chop chop Poems. Below are the most popular long Chop chop by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Chop chop poems by poem length and keyword.
going to a new place where flowers bloom
you have a taste for flounder and shrimp scampi
i have a taste for scallops and coconut shrimp
i say rice and cheddar biscuits
you say lobster potatoes and baked beans
we are now at home with everything
i look all over for the cookbook
of course you find it in under five seconds
we laugh at that for a spell
we wash our hands throughly and begin cooking our special little feast
chop chop chop
whisk whisk whisk
shake shake shake
clank clank clank
michael franks is setting the cool, calm mood
open goes the oven
we smile at our impromptu mess of achievement
you then come closer to me and bury your head in my chest and take in the hemp and lavendar soap
i myself take in your fresh scent of calm waters
though we are far from each other's type, we worked to find Love in the center of an unexpected Common Ground
while waiting for the food to finish cooking, we relax, rejoice, and enjoy the comforting company of each other
I hear him knocking.
No matter. I will not let him in.
The tree exploding with sound -
better that it’s not my siding.
The cluckity…clucking,
I don’t mind, as long as
the woodpecker stays off the periphery.
His sound inviting, but he’s not invited in.
His sharp beak, hacking away.
His bright, red head endlessly bobbing.
This is no bobbing for apples.
Chisel…chisel…chop…chop.
I can take the noise as long as he doesn’t exploit his choice.
For he confers with the squirrels
to burrow into my Winter walls.
They’ve been fixed.
Don’t be up to your nasty tricks,
your antics or you’ll be in a fix.
Thank you, for now….wait! What!?
Suddenly and expectantly,
with sudden urgency, like the drilling for oil, the cruel
headbanger searching for gold…fool’s gold.
The shining objects, with owl shapes, can only deter to a point.
Smart critter listens for the creak of the front door. He’ll fly away,
then circle back and drill some more. I love the fall,
but not the fowl feathers…
Very aware that there is a fair share of fellows
Fan flames burning elan maims with bellows
Whom dare to pose not care about their woes
Laid bare rhymes snared wild meadows mows
Us yearning for poetic melody of mellow cellos
Despair that their attitude is almost bellicose
Foes nightmare lair where I do come to blows
Heir to pair Keats & Byron but no they chose
Rhymeless charmless fayre that's just prose
Heard when occurred then poetry blurred
Pedantic herd frantic semantic antic deferred
Each cranny & nook has a canny hook if stirred
Spurred absurd word flair whirred seeds sows
Glows with those lingo bingo bows it bestows
Grows rare nerd rows 4 hip hop bros & hoes
Pros purred knows highs & lows all about flows
Stuffing buffing nothing blows anything goes
Non stop trip hip hop drop or flip to ship of grime
Prime chime every time it's an on a dime rhyme
Fops chop chop Pop's top crop lets rip does climb
No crime saga like an aga..mime or lager and lime
Sublime he crows every single poet’s holistic pastime
Artistic don let the lexicon just mingle the paradigm
This linguistic shingle gives you a lovely wee tingle
Sod twee odd bods going ballistic poems must rhyme!
I REMEMBER (1)
Candles & nightlights
flickering bright
blackout curtains
shutting out light
Dripping setting
from Sunday's roast
spread thick
on Monday's toast
Paper chains
cut and glued
beer in glass
bottles brewed
Christmas puddings
with threepenny bits
Meccano kits
made to fit
Sunday school outings
upto Coombe hill
my first ever train ride
so quite a thrill
Summer walks
to the Bugle Horn
crisps & lemonade
upon their lawn
A weekly soak
..in a round tin bath
towelling off
by a fire in the hearth
I REMEMBER (2)
afterschool
on a
tuesday
my treat
awaiting on gran's
baking tray
a spicy aroma
filled
the air
t'was
freshly baked-
my
weekly share
bread pudding
piping hot
drizzled with honey
moreish&
yummy
a moist mouth
watering
confection
in
a
sultana delectation
I REMEMBER (3)
my clerking
ever on the go
the junior
lowest
of the low
the office
with partners just two
pens pencils
nearly-new
daily drudgery
reality soon shone thru'
the 'old man ' yelling
'ere lad
chop chop
get me baccy
from t'corner shop
tea-break brews'
in a stew
bellows of hurry-hurry
from the back-office crew
another task
to get done
this time
for the partner's son
no time to stop &chat
he'd forgotten the fish
for his wife's cat
the switchboard clicked
the doorbell chimed
&
skills to learn
juggle & prioritise
whew!
nearly half five
& knock-off time
just one task
still to do
fetch the 'boss's
evening news
was this really
the career to choose?
Chop Chop Chop
Differences in swings
Chop Chop Chop
Change up the tempo
Chop Chop Chop Chop
Ill make a difference in them
Chop Chop Chop
If I trim a couple of edges itll be perfect
Chop chop chop
They’ve been my friend forever
Chop chop chop
Well I’ll go out with them once it’ll be fun
Chop Chop Chop
Why does this feel so good
Chop Chop Chop
Just one more hit, it’s just to relate to them
Chop Chop Chop
Im only trying to help, I’m just doing God’s work
Chop chop chop
What has happened to me?
Chop Chop
Why do I feel so dull?
Chop
Why do I hurt?
Chop
Stops
Your axe is dull
Nulled by the continuous swings at your joy
Your peace
Sweet release from small victories of
“I have no one else”
“You mean so much to me”
It’s all a plea to search for something that they long for
Because of comfort?
Because of formalities?
The struggles that we face
Are a result of the people we embrace.
So you replace His grace with their embrace
And by doing so you lose traction of your place trying to affect them
But in turn falling to the misery and infecting yourself with change
To disarrange your being,
your personality
It’s the analogy of “Iron sharpeneth iron”
But now the iron is dull,
The Damascus has lost its edge
Because of supplemental wetrock
When we chop into the wood of people
And we chop and chop to find worth
but in the end, they’re the ones that get hurt
by dulling yourself and damaging them
condemning the Idea of ever being loved again
So then you try and make it work,
And result in settling for less
So you digress the values of manhood
and add the boys who only get with girls to hide their insecurities.
Minus the beauty stolen from girls who add make up to make up, of who that guy wants them to be,
that double negative alone, equals a positive pregnancy.
And so she carries the baby along because that boy was reduced to a coward.
So his whole life ended up being devoured, now she can’t sleep at night because she cries for hours,
don’t you see this equation is missing a higher power.
And so I plea with desperation in my words,
To be able accept that people change for better or for worse
But to know the difference can cost you your worth.
Chopping wood sounds like shots - gunshots.
If they are done right, and these are.
Chop. Chop.Chop. Shot. Shot. Shot.
I am outside, writing in the sun.
My hands are startlingly warm.
A sense of well-being surrounds me.
A pink aura has me in her grasp.
The wood chopping sound gets my attention for a second.
Chop. Chop. Chop.
I look up at a weird angle and there is a rainbow reflection in my glasses.
The sound has stopped.
I thank God that it is not gunshots. It is only wood chops.
I hear them during hunting season here, and I guess every two weeks or so at school.
I do not want to get used to them.
It is bad enough that my students have.
They no longer look up.
yellow, orange, red, ribbons stretched across…the brilliant sun
the sound of a rooster..,a fiddler on a roof, above Anatevka
where roads are muddy and tradition is a foundation…milky
town comes alive…chop, chop, choppy…and doughy…fish
feathers…generations…heavy bundles and matchmaking
questions, seriously funny with portentous blessing…worship
peace and harmony interrupted by troublemaker, dancing
dragging his boots down muddy or dusty…near chimney
the bow strides across strings, pointedly…dramatically
the sky still in lullaby state, far above all…it sadly waits
God only knows what will happen next…
In shadows, we all, knowingly or in denial
cross the boundaries from the past to tomorrow
in our present, we levitate, our worries like birds
tomorrow will soon be our yesterdays, faraway looks
no one can traverse nor enter, perhaps lean into
but never mine…embrace not…feel sorry for
not their fault…the split of friendship…waving
bye bye, forgetting the punch line
God only knows what happens next
eventually existence ends and if we desire
we may know the why and wherefore
but likely we, gadabouts, will be checking out
the horizon that is His hem filling heaven’s temple
You can't fool a dancer,
hard reverb coming at you like Prancer-
welcome-wagon interstellar like Lancer-
holy demon!
When did my steam stop?
Holly weedin'!
Where did you chop chop?
Heeeeeeeeeeeey! ! ! !
Welcome here...
Its home in the winter.
Heeeeeeeeeeeey! ! ! !
Dear Splinter,
it's a creep in the depths of the beat,
it's the 'I won'ts' in the Orgasms and weeps,
the liver turns into seed,
never forgets to breathe,
because the end will set us all free! ! !
Welcome here,
I have a reason to sound clear,
so don't drop out justifyin' why you're not-
flappin- flippin- rectifyin,'
or wearing any gear...
Heather bids to whither in winter with a sinner!
Dharma- bammered- donner's party at dinner!
Don-wan gets undertaken by the cowards of the crewman,
that's what happens off stage at an out-land!
Astounding as the crowd that attracts,
jumpin' jimmy's all around the facts,
people clambering over outdated nick-nacks,
elders not retiring because they know they put evil back,
William wondered of war over sea's with the remorse,
Donna sang to the serious on stage with the poor,
verdict was made to off set the players inundating us with words,
technology crashed the earth and left the economy for the birds.
He assembled in darkness the corroded horn
by familiarity and sense of touch.
Then cast as thunder into the empty night
long tones void of musical melody.
Sustained tones, fierce and woeful
in succession paraded the street.
Each note precisely chosen, unfurled
and carried aloft in chilly air.
The flickering street lamp understood
as long shadows on a cobbled walk
slow danced in the warming glow.
But the music was not for them tonight.
The musician’s voice transformed
and angry staccato flares broke.
Chop, chop and chop on the mighty tree!
He watched it fall dead against unfeeling brick.
Snapping of limbs and morality
but the tree was just a thug anyway.
Indignant “Quiet downs!”
rained from high-rise windows
mingling in the blood of the fallen;
and tears…so few tears.
Still, the music wasn’t for them tonight.
Yet they could not escape the song,
that guileless voice in the darkness,
which once again transformed.
Weeping heaves bellowed through aged-brass
amplifying every tremble of the lip.
Pitiful notes, harsh on either end
and broken by uneven vibrato,
yet piercing in their rawness,
turned away the wrathful storm.
Tremulous begging it seemed,
accompanied a hopeful plea for dawn,
which lulled to sleep the very stars above.
The moon halted to listen as well,
before tucking itself in, cathartic,
as the pitiful busker concluded his song
of remorse for un-lived dreams
and unspoken things
The music wasn't for them tonight.
10/18/15
A blood-red private view of morning
A second chance to climb the attic stairs.
The ceiling, ticking time, cascades
A thousand pricking darts, stampeding
Purple chariots, blanketing the sky.
The zealot's blade, so swift to still
The heart that beats an alien rhythm,
No backward glance to desolation.
Within a vastness all-consuming,
The wolf retreats to primal isolation
And howls unheeded at a distant,
Cold and quite indifferent moon.
As thunder clouds converge
And drown all hope of harvest home,
We find that, like the wolf, we are alone.
Inertia quickens, takes a hand,
At last to move the day.
The cabbage, wilting on the edge of sanity,
Bleakly views the blackened pot.
The steady chop chop chop is heralding
The grand ensemble of the daily stew.
Regardless, now the day's awake,
The perils lost in sleep are there anew.
The blood-red now transforms to palest grey.
The resurrected monotone of every day.