Long Cockles Poems
Long Cockles Poems. Below are the most popular long Cockles by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Cockles poems by poem length and keyword.
I Do Not Know The Secret...,
Asper Art Of Writing Acclaimed Poem...
Not purposeful intent,
when tasking self (Das Scribe)
a nondescript member of
*****sapiens village people tribe
metaphorical spear in hand ready
to unbridal strong arm as vibe
resoundingly resonates, sans
(crackles, snaps, and pops)
optimal instant to expunge bribe
bing fountainhead of creativity
oft times screed or futile diatribe
no matter smug satisfaction appeased
as mental delectation on par with eclair
for taste buds, a reward dare,
I acknowledge mine appealing talent
(undoubtedly a slightly biased opinion)
with fast break for game of Solitaire,
or sink concentration matte tear
real awaiting with bated breath
comments, feedback, input...usually fair
to middling acceptable,
though frequent occasions blare
ring liberal dollop of adulation,
warms hearty cockles of this hermit
comfortably numb in his lair
which decency, humility, modesty...
of mine to avoid trumpeting pomposity
as if yours truly snooty billionaire
keeps in check (ma mate)
cognitive firmae tubby beware
boot up pawn occasion, the errant knight
within me finds ego expanding square
lee out beyond outer limits
of the twilight zone, where
entire cerebral cranium
shatters temple mount scare
ring eureka temporarily
finding me unaware,
viz blinding, deafening, and
obliterating brainstorm spate bare
lee delivering tummy any appreciable,
pronounceable, noticeable... impact
relishing this devil may care
state of being if only...threadbare
tenuous consciousness endured
sustaining oblivious blissfulness
absentmindedness forever delivering cheer
full countenance of mine finding me
unafraid of Virginia Woolf, a bugbear,
and/or he who dons most powerful paw
he can render complex edifice
of democracy to disappear
thus...after shaking wordy playwear
an early plug to vote November 2020
due to here
about nine months and one year.
Quote by Dandapani:
A man who prepares for war invites war/A man who prepares for God invites God
War And Peace
I am not ready to strap a grenade to my chest
for the sake of more power
Nor am I ready to kill my fellow man for the
sake of pleasing my Government
I am not ready to die so that I could know
which side of the fence I didn't blow
War and Peace, a silver knife ready to be used
Once side butters organs for evil doers full of hate
the other, the cockles of a compassionate heart
I rather die in peace donating my parts to love
then in a merciless cruel way such as war...
How about you, how do you wish to die ?
Manila and Cockles
oh the steamers oh the steamers
Ensis and Razors
Carpet shell clams and Ynghylch
Llanfairpwllgwyngyllgogerychwyrndrobwllllantysiliogogogoch
A cold Read and Cattle call
The grounds have Karsted and
surface waters have polluted our aquifers
one said that mussels had attached to the
pipes in his handdugged well
Gaius Suetonius Paulinus,
the speak your name
in Rome
To mock the lovers'
of clams
Oysters: Oysters,
The Worlds my Oyster
mountains and mountains
we shuck
The Squawking shuckers
Bhah and grunt
grinding the day away
seagulls eager for lunch
swarm the skies and the ground
Song By
Sexiigalahgogo DeWhoreofbeddamn
'A two Flute Minimum" written by
"That Ole Gal" from Big-City Music
"What ya'll know out there in the Kuntry?"
Salted memories of childhood.
Bitter taste of tears.
Father teaching me to swim.
Overcoming my fears.
Searching for cockles at the beach.
Little bubbles in the sand.
Scrape with the garden rake.
Then dig in with your hand.
Periwinkle soup on Friday night.
With their curly little tail.
Flip the lid off with a needle,
to expose the little snail.
Oysters were a special treat.
I loved their slithery slide.
Salted memories in my mouth.
It made me want to dive.
Crab claws from the fishermen,
hawling their baskets in.
Daddy would do a deal with them,
as we were in for a swim.
Salted memories from years ago.
Bitter taste of tears.
I miss my home and always will.
Forever down the years.
As expected, Mr. Eartle will die on time or sooner
We understand India has over 1.3 billion people
None of them are followers of Eartle or his turtle wax
But unlike the soon to be deceased man from America
The certificates in turtle wax will grow on in perpetuity
He will leave behind a fortune in computers made in India
That will also continue to rise in interest and of interest to
The aforementioned over populated place already mentioned
Where people and profits speak a language more in tune with you
And if that is not enough to warm the cockles of your heart
Eartle owns really real estate not fake
Three mansions on a lake if not mistaken
All in the United States of America
Not to be confused with India at all
His properties continue to be of interest to a band of hobos
Family members who are hardly members of the human race
More like viruses which came into existence as mistakes
As precursors to life formed from the beginning of creation
To latch on to you or other living organisms to exist at all
Mr. Eartle must die today so he can vote in 27 states
So what if his properties will be occupied by viruses
People from Texas who know what's best for them
Who smile so it must be time to go
He will die today to save more space
Is it wrong to be invisible?
There is nothing nice about being alive
Showing ID can be a hassle
You can cast more votes when dead
Because no one sees you in the booth
Let an angel pull a lever in your name
Even if it is Eartle not from India
Good citizens never go away
Constitutions change but not constituents
They vote in many places when they are dead
No one ever really dies these days
Everything is computerized
And it is illegal to discriminate against an alien
Such as spirits or a ghost
Entities who have every right to vote
Time bracketed between
December first nineteen fifty nine and
December first two thousand twenty three
represents sixty six orbitz
one prized Earthling
named Amélie Beth Harris-McGeehan
completed round the sun.
About half her life linkedin
with spousal enrichment,
(while hunkered down livingsocial
in Woodbury, New Jersey),
hence the hyphenated married name.
Though said endearing eldest sister
approximately thirteen plus months my senior,
ofttimes during mein kampf,
she displayed maternal (motherly) mien.
Back during mine boyhood
dark shadows along the edge of night
(emanating from outer limits
of the twilight zone)
spooked me to flinch
as did appearance
of the boogeyman induce affright
only exacerbated my delicate mental health
punctuated psyche of mine
with disequilibrium psycho-social blight
above named sibling a protector I cite
twilled me in the valley
of love and delight,
an emotional refuge rescued sought
deliverance from anguish
loving succor proffered
peace upon mine body, mind, and soul,
she did immediately expedite
warming cockles of me heart
analogous to affecting, creating,
forging, jumpstarting, offering, and ushering
ideal paradise island temperature
if measured by degrees balmy fahrenheit
pointing, revealing, shining,
and training a guiding-light
unafraid to defend diminutive
docile, inordinately meek brother,
when threatened courtesy bullies
that significantly towered over mine
below average stature height
a measly little skinny, yet zany
(when within comfort of home) lad
naively oblivious to our mother,
when her first born daughter dynamic,
especially smoldering contention
kindled figurative tinder, which squabble
escalated in intensity
sparking vehement feud to ignite
loosing volatile verbal exchange
triggering The Emergency Alert System
to issue warning
lest clear and present danger
(at 324 Level Road)
recorded in history books
licking, overshadowing, rivaling,
and undermining revolution
kickstarted and hashtagged as Jacobite.
Over the horizon,
on distant shores
lies my message in a bottle
cast askew on the beach
with other remnant memories
and hopes in tatters scattered
strewn among the drift wood debris
dead soldier memories lying face down
castaway sailor survivor sobs long gone,
in the debris fields of dead memories, silent
On distant shores
turtles hatch
alligators bask in the sun
seagulls argue and caw
fishermen love just being there
stranded cockles ooze under for cover
waves surge up and run out
tides rise and ebb
surfers smile, turn and head back out
ghosts of lovers walk the beach hand in hand
cries of kids playing echo in the splash and hiss of waves
kites ply the skies
pearly shells beckon beach-combers
cuttlefish and seahorse skeletons stark white
buried in the flotsam and jetsam
wood debris worn smooth and bleached
smelly old seaweed dried-out leathery
action aplenty, memorabilia.
On distant shores
the hiss and roar of waves
the glare of the sun
the coming and going of the sand
moved in drifts by wind and wave
drowns out all the memories
cast ashore as debris and litter
on a graveyard shore
where fresh footprints are washed away
where lingering wanderers
see, feel, touch and taste in the moment
but where no one hears
the stories locked away
in the debris fields of dead memories, silent.
Wee Willie Winkie met up with Tom Sprat
To try to find the crooked cat
They employed the help of three blind mice
But then decided that wasn’t nice
So they left the mice with Ol’ King Cole
Who ate curds and whey out of a bowl
That he took from Miss Muffet when she ran away
From the little spider that ruined her day
They went down Drury Lane where they saw the Red Hen
Being questioned by all the Kings Men
About bells and cockles in neat little rows
And who might have taken the emperors clothes
She quickly blamed the Duke of York
Who supposedly took the knife and fork
Just before the cow jumped over the moon
Which is why the dish ran away with the spoon.
Whenever a hazy sun sets
behind some somber clouds
and a lazy breeze moans
through the grassy plains,
You go out looking for me
and find me nowhere,
Just recall those days of yore
when we were ever together
blissfully lost in each other’s arms
beside some sprightly stream…
Yield not to dark despair, dear
I am just a thought away.
When a gust of whimsical wind
flirts with your tresses and
caresses your fair skin,
When a whiff of fragrance
arouses your longing,
When the balmy rays of sun
warms the cockles of your heart,
Though I may not be beside you now…
Take heart, my love
I am just a thought away.
Even though I have to
sail forth for the yonder shore
and the distance tears us apart,
Just summon those fond memories
of the days we left behind…
For I am just a thought away.
~Contest: A Lovely Memory
~Sponsor: Regina McIntosh.
Pressure all around us governing nature
low means a good chance of violent storms.
Gales blowing the waves into enormous crests
that rush smashing at cliff and the beach.
High signifies good weather and sunshine
that warms our heart cockles with smiles.
Bringing life to our lovely landscape
coating all in a rainbow of gorgeous colour.
In between all can be calm, but take your brolly
least you get drenched in a sudden down pour.
One minute sweating pulling off layers of clothing
the next you are shivering and reaching for a sweater.
Yet it is this very pressure that makes our world
the most beautiful one known in our universe.
From space we show up as a blue world of water
if in a plane mainly a green place with patches.
Vibrant bands of yellow, reds, purples and violets
fill in the patchwork quilts. If we ever lost pressure
our world would completely change maybe even becoming
barren. So I say long, long live pressure even when low.