Long Chutes Poems
Long Chutes Poems. Below are the most popular long Chutes by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Chutes poems by poem length and keyword.
INDUSTRY OF CHRISTMAS
Cut down the pine! That one’s for me.
Lovely needles — so fresh and free.
A s p r i t z of h o l i d a y esprit.
O Christmas tree! O Christmas tree!
Harness him with silver bell rows -
Dear Rudolph, master of blind-snow.
In dark W i n t e r, oh how it glows.
A red-red nose! A red-red nose!
While we repose, he rides the chutes,
Working, down the chimney he scoots.
S a n t a in his h o l i d a y s u i t
And fur-lined boots! And fur-lined boots!
A m e r r y, smiling, k i n d l y bloke,
Loves with great fervor the poor folk.
Smells of cookies, milk and nog yolk.
And chimney smoke! And chimney smoke!
Elves polish the sleigh and explore.
Dear old S a n t a, as their mentor,
Jumps in and teaches them to soar.
With gifts galore! With gifts galore!
12/2/2017
Monotetra Form
Larger than large, fostering the void,
Rippled iron for the walls, roof and door,
Above six-foot legs reaching up from the dirt,
To cradle the woollen greased floor,
With broken old memories in the years now at peace,
Years from the sheep shearing and men,
Years of disused hard immovable love,
Love from the chutes, race and pens,
This ghostly lit hall became an art hub,
Again a busy but with beautiful paint,
Where freedom can sit and relax with the past,
Where life can go to escape,
And walls are now coloured with exquisite art pop,
Everything here is a friend,
That greets folks each time they create art with a brush,
In the hundred year old shearing shed.
Country western songs are for the lonely and the sad
They drone on and on, and some are truly pretty bad.
If you have heard one, you have pretty much heard them all.
Most are about the good guy losing the pretty girl after all.
Oh, give me a country western wail and shrill twang
Where the moon dogs howl and the moon doth clang
Give me a cowboy with a belt buckle that flips and flops
Bore me to death until my bored heart stops
Country western music blah blah blah
The drummer can drum it with a rah rah rah
You can sleep through it for it is silly, lah dee dah
Country music blah blah blah
Country western songs are for the ones who like to drown
In their own mire and muck, human dogs from a pound
Country western gives me no personal happiness or delight.
I would rather listen to the news stations throughout my night.
Oh give me a country western truck that I can take mudding.
A motor I can ruin and make my dad pay for, McFudding.
Give me a rodeo, some chaps, a lasso and some worn boots.
Throw in a bull, cow, or horse, and send me down some hay chutes.
Country western music blah blah blah
The drummer can drum it with a rah rah rah
You can sleep through it for it is silly, lah dee dah
Country music blah blah blah
Not a room for the waiting
or the receiving of the waiting,
but a room for a liquid thinking
a turgidity
that trickles through plastic tubes.
Is this where doors remain jammed
forever between Hospital floors?
Unseen, a wall clock drops
heavy packages of time
into narrow chutes,
latex handprints are shaken
from sterilized surfaces.
The regularity
of beep and whir mechanically
sucks light in and out.
The yoke recalls it shell.
Desiccated fingers
squeeze a phantom pain-ball,
morphine as cold as ice
is delivered
to an unknown address.
A swish of a starched presence,
fingertips retrace
scorched fever-lines.
Eyes creep toward the voice.
Consciousness
scratches a self-portrait
upon a white neon sun,
a hesitant, primitive etching.
A nurse adjusts the electronic pulse
of a free-floating mind.
Space expands under her hands.
Overdosing (rather binge reading) thesaurus...
Imagine if ye will
earlier one blustery February sixteenth
two thousand twenty one,
yours truly experienced atypical thrill
perusing pages of heavily laden word book
marking where I leave off reading
courtesy no frills inked quill
(sold to yours truly courtesy original
big bird on his deathbed)
plus jotting down page number
so mundane effort to marry me interest
with me lingua franca (English language)
neither void nor nill
aforementioned laborious literary task
persevered despite forgoing
eating and sleeping might kill
(reading every last word)
hoop ping diligence improves vocabulary
making me maxillary stronger
no matter chronological years
considered smidgen whipping
over third scored Sam Hill
Earth orbitz around nearest star
traveling at (pun one mach two)
warp speed amidst escadrille
whereby accompanying aircraft
eventually zooms into Brazil
housing disproportionate Amazon
rainforest biome encompassing
6.7 million square kilometers and shared
by eight countries.
Even before (the square root of 3844)
years ago exiting the womb
Logophile mine self anointed
nom figuratively feathery de plume
no matter mine cranium
ready to explode ka-boom
I continue to parlay mental energy
like some garden variety harum scarum
and jam additional minutiae
(at thee expense not preserving sanity)
despite very limited (maximum) headroom
to decrease hydranencephaly
the whole hare brain scheme
rigged up with shunted
(think chutes and ladders) flume.
One definite lament
until death doth do me proud
constitutes deficient intelligence
genetically (father) endowed
imbibing cerebral thirst for knowledge
constitutes the lack of photographic memory
nsync with fifty plus shades of gray matter
ofttimes smoldering like dark storm cloud
to retain information I read aloud.
Quite an exciting
(seat of pants) life I did asseverate
less to impress any anonymous reader,
whose interest I did pique and captivate
versus (verses crafted) more so to delineate
quirky passion (couched as poetic endeavor)
inexplicable how to formulate
though no justification be given
hoop fully only kudos to generate.
Super Souper 9-16-24
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Super Souper
Super Soupers wrangle rhymes
into verses quite sublime
Taming wild-eyed metaphors
into iambic strophes galore
Lassoing doggy ironies
with clever lines, entendre ease
Galloping alliterations
corralled by personifications
Silencing cacophony
with gentle mooing euphony
Bucking wild imagery
herded into symmetry
Stampeding loco thin illusions
bulldogged into chutes of allusions
Bad hoss herds of assonance
saddled for a dressage dance
Bucking broncos hyperbole
Juxtaposed by analogy
Anaphoras on loco weed
settle into quatrain reads
Super Soupers let words rip
in rodeos of craftmanship.
Though thine two grown
former babes in crib age,
now lead checkered lives,
no longer monopolize my time
as though their persons went backstage
either one embracing, judging,
and negotiating positive
chutes and ladders with courage
evoking glee this papa
helped both beautiful lasses
avoid being risk averse
navigating life with minimal damage
though to get ahead of the class,
(asper the eldest Eden Liat)
credit karma fairly and squarely attributed
to herself with encourage
meant from this papa, who oft time
felt he lacked any clue
akin to a hobbled battleship left
to drift at sea, whence,
upon landfall sub
sequent lee forced to forage
in a foreign dominion (akin to being
among Settlers of Catan),
plus devoid of instruments to gauge,
an optimal strategic operation,
thus figuratively groping in the dark
(unaware of a brewing twister)
guided by blind faith
doth admit saying sorry,
but apologetic homage
would disqualify thyself,
a "FAKE" mastermind
undeserving of just desserts,
unfairly via diktat plucking sweet treats
awash within Candy Land,
a deceptive image
entrancing, luring and, spellbinding
ultimately incurring trouble,
particularly when Shana Aubrey
(younger by about
twenty six months)
garnered lion's share of parental attention
necessitated mandatory intervention
due to language
skills, plus pronounced
developmental delay,
where supreme social service
sages gentle massage
wrought divine prestidigitation
as one after another
case worker did overencourage
to counteract congenital
cognitive setback (coalesced in utero),
now finds das dada envious
(cuz, aye got mired, hogtied,
and bogged down with
obsessive compulsive trivial pursuit,
hence warrant so lucky as thee Punim)
steers ship shape body electric
round her uncharted cerebral
cape of good hope passage.
Computers computing have pinpointed here
This planet, it seems, has something to fear
I look to the skies and they’re beautiful…… now
The stars are quite static, yet I mop my brow
A spacecraft is coming; I can’t see it yet
It’s out of control, so it’s a good bet
That no chutes, no thrusters and no reverse gear
Are going to stop it from crashing so near
Gravity, might you please assuage my fear
Of this plunging artefact that cannot steer
Could it perhaps splash down in pools of mud
Or maybe come down with a fairly light ‘Thud!’
It’s them blinking Ruskies; that’s who it was
Sent that thing up and then it was lost
They sent that big firework into the air
Because, much like Everest… Venus is there
It’s coming our way, of that we are certain
Let’s hope it will head for the old iron curtain
The west has been reticent to put the boot in
Please Kosmos 4-8-2, crash down on Putin
The experts are feeding us all with the notion
That K 4-8-2 might come down in the ocean
But everyone’s gonna be in for a shock
If it crashes unhindered on some city block
So everyone, everywhere… here is the craic
Some of us may have a cross on our back
So if you look up and you see it, best run
For though it’s quite small, it weighs half a ton
Of course, every cloud has a silver trimmed edge
And whilst I shall hide behind some nearby hedge
I savour the slim chance that Putin is tremblin’
In case space should dump its old trash on the Kremlin
But if it is I who gets royally splattered
Perhaps I should be posthumously flattered
So, if its huge shadow finds me unawares
It’s been good to know you… I’ll see you ‘upstairs’…
Hank hired on fer a dollar a day an' found.
He wuz knowed as th' best bronc buster around.
They wuz allus a roll-yer-own a-danglin' frum his lips,
An' he wore his jeans an' chaps low on his hips!
He wuz lean an' lank an' had spent years in th' saddle,
As bow-legged as pliers, spending so much time astraddle!
Wearin' an ol' slouch hat an' well-worn boots,
He'd rode many a wild bronc out uv rodeo chutes!
"Thar stands th' orn'riest critter alive!" th' boss implied.
"Thar ain't no mustang 'round I cain't tame!" Hank replied.
Other cowpokes ambled to th' corral to enjoy th' show,
An' with knowin' grins watched Hank earn his dough!
Th' bronc jes stood there snortin' with fire in his eyes.
Hank could see trouble! Boys, wuz he in fer a su'prise!
Sech hossflesh he'd never rode! He'd never seen sech gyrations!
His ol' bones had never experienced sech sensations!
He wuz throwed, stomped an' wedged agin' th' fence.
With his pals cheerin' him on an' things a-gittin' tense,
He 'lowed, "Boys, I give up! He's beat me good!
I reckon I'd better find myself anuther livelihood!"
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired (© All Rights Reserved)
I often watched him tirelessly sifting
Grains of native corn in a rusty mill-
Those arms a kinetic flush, quicker than
July’s heat, as if glazed limestone rubbed
A wavy mane blown by summer’s tossed air :
Perhaps, I have imagined him laboring-
Muscular taut and bronzed by scorched hours
His gait languidly aloof fetching water
Across the pond, a lonesome vignette,
This image cast-off like a bag of disused husk
Far out behind, steep as the upturned leaves...
Eyes doleful flickering on late noon’s hardened toil.
While upon paddles, a man’s life seemed to rile
Where golden-rod turned to nickel's work,
That down old chutes rolled musky sweat of flesh:
I have beheld him amid dusk’s aftermath
Of sadness roaming there in faint overalls,
From his glimpses, the mill of pit and death
And each lily I clutched for him wilted, sagging-
For in my own aloneness, I dared not meet him.
Gristmill Contest for Craig Cornish
6/3/2018