Long Cone Poems
Long Cone Poems. Below are the most popular long Cone by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Cone poems by poem length and keyword.
I am a basset hound and I love to play
I can run and jump all day
I really love magic and tricks
I also love chocolate bics
Yummy! They are so good
I would eat a packet a day if I could
My name is Lady and here is a story all about me
I'm a funny looking dog you see:
Lady was home alone
All she had was her green plastic bone
Her owners had gone out for the day
And Lady really wanted to play
Miserable, she lay on the ground with her long floppy ears
With watery eyes, it seemed as though she was about to burst into tears
Suddenly she perked up when she heard a squeaking sound coming from the house
Lady became excited, she hoped it was a mouse
She barked out loud and ran towards the sound
Lady was such a clever basset hound
With her long nose, she sniffed out the little mouse in his hiding place
The whole morning turned into a playful ‘dog and mouse’ chase!
The mouse was too fast for her and escaped through a small crack in the wall
He was terrified of this funny looking dog who stood two feet tall
Exhausted, Lady flopped down in her basket to rest
She had tried her very, very best
She closed her eyes and had a long nap
And dreamt that she managed to squeeze through the scary dog flap
When Lady woke up, her throat felt dry
She needed a gallon of water to drink and she alone knew why!
The sun was shining and it was hot
She found her bowl and gulped down the lot
Lady looked at the new dog flap
She lifted up one of her paws and gave it a sharp tap
She took a chance and pushed herself through the gap
Relief flooded through her, she had made it out of the flap
Out in the sun
It was time for more fun
Lady headed to the beach
It wasn’t far, within her reach
Calm blue sea with the tiniest of waves
Grottos and amazing caves
Lady’s paw marks were all over the sand
She loved to play by the sea and on land
Cool air blew around her as she splashed around in the sea
What a great feeling it was to be free!
The aroma of food was all around
She was always hungry, this hilarious hound
An ice-cream van was parked nearby
Lady drooled and just stood by
A young couple spotted the little dog sitting down on her own
Her sad brown eyes caught their attention, they each bought her a cone
Lady wished that she could shout
She clenched both cones in her mouth
She licked off the chocolate ice-cream and wolfed down the rest
2025.05.13
Today, not as any other days,
When I always was the first arrived at this place,
Waiting for the piano to be available,
For me to clean and press on the keyboard,
To break the sound of silence
Of the well lighted open space.
Not far away, there was a chimney
Covered under a huge cone,
They were the centre place's icons.
Some of the personnel of this Centre,
Like the security guards, the cleaner,
The maintenance workers, the new train station constructors,
The goods deliveries staff and the train commuters,
They rushed and walked pass me.
Few stopped to pay me compliments.
Lately, I could not play the piano well.
There was one other reason
But I preferred not to mention.
Have I cheesed off with the piano?
Or was I fed up with the same old songs,
Played in the last 10 months.
Lately, my memory failed me badly,
I could not play new songs at all.
Normally, I was able to remember
How the music went
After listening to them over and over again,
But, now I could not do that any more.
My emotional pain supposed to settle by now,
But some how, it flared up again
When I saw him on the Mothers' day evening.
I was sure why he was there,
What a painful excuse for him.
Once a year to show your appreciation to a person,
Who carried you inside her womb,
Especially in his case,
A single mother to raise four young children.
Also according to his descriptions,
His mother was the slowest person in the world
When learning and understanding new things.
It hurt me when hearing those words.
The way he perceived his mother,
As a person who has low IQ and not intelligent.
To me, he appeared to be a very handsome,
Fit, strong and wise mature person.
Then why he remained being unattached.
After three decades of adulthood.
Well, it was because he was too picky.
I was not suitable for him, not even as a friend,
After all, I met only 66.66% of his requirements.
We had same level of intelligent,
Shared lot of common interest,
Strongly believed in healthiness,
Had 90% of the same passion
And point of view in life.
If that was not good enough in friendship
Then I had no idea what it should be.
Good luck to him in soul mates searching,
Good luck to him in finding a soul mate with chemistry,
Last but not, in finding a partner in life and having a family.
When Five Ends
My son turned five a few days back,
And as with most kids his age, the questions don’t lack.
He came in one day and looked up at me,
And innocently asked, “When five ends, what'll I be?”
I looked at him close and answered him straight
“After five, comes six, then seven and eight”.
He thought for a minute and then said with a smile,
“Wow, that'll be great, I’ll be eight in a while”.
As he ran off to play, I sat there in thought,
And then the question came up, “Is that what I taught?”
So I called him back and said “Son, let me see,
I don’t think I mentioned how cool five can be.
Did you know you could eat an ice cream cone,
And still tell your age with one hand alone?
You don’t need to stop and show them two hands,
But just hold up five fingers, and they understand.
Soon sticks won’t be guns, swords and bats and such,
They’ll just be things that aren’t thought of so much.
Bugs aren't the same at ten as they are when you're five,
Because the whole world is new, and seems more alive.
How many teens do you know who still want to fly,
While at five you’re still willing to give it a try?
How many eight year olds go and move truckloads of dirt,
And never think twice about getting hurt?
Now, there’s cool things to come, don’t get me wrong
But something about five helps life move along.
Don’t rush it on by and reach for the eight,
When just being five is something so great.
Yeah, it’s eighteen to vote and sixteen to drive,
But it’s never as cool as just being five.
So, to answer your question, don’t wish it away,
There’s much to be said for just living today.
True, five will soon end, and then we move on,
But enjoy five right now before it’s all gone.”
I never knew she was bleeding and pleading,
Until I turned to see the blood in her eyes,
And the agonies tearing her apart.
Rejected and dejected, she gasps for breath,
Humiliation and intimidation - written all over her gloomy soul,
Like curves of interpenetration of a sphere intersecting a cone.
Still licking wounds from savagery and ruthlessness,
The last dead body in her hands dropped on the floor,
That was her seven years old son,
The sting and pang of cruelty penetrates my brain,
Leaving me with lasting pains that remain,
Because she had been starving for months,
With oppression stronger than death.
Her tears were like a river overflowing its banks,
And she asked me,
“Could this be the way God wants it?”
Why am I denied of my rights, for a fair fight?
I sighed deeply, from a kind of mental depletion,
My hurrying thoughts clamored for utterance,
But my heart and lips were full of speechless sorrow.
As the chill of the night crept in from the street,
To all the houses that scattered over the slums like ant-hills,
The sun laid golden-soft over the huddled hills of the West coast,
More gunshots thundered across the neighbourhood,
A thin shrill voice like the cry of an expiring mouse,
was only heard from a very far distance.
She took me to her backyard,
Showed me graves on the ground with monumental inscriptions,
And she said;
There lies my daughter, who was raped to death,
There lies my husband, who stood for justice,
There lays my son who died in peace keeping,
Can all these valuable bloods be wasted for nothing’s sake?
Surviving schools were dilapidated,
The past is horrible, the future is uncertain,
The present is life threatening and monstrous,
Prison walls are raised daily in all the provinces,
The few privileged students in institutions are studying Act of War
‘Casus belli’
The economy is dropping as more jobless youths resort to crimes,
Hospitals and the strict streets are getting more congested with dead bodies.
All these made me to wonder,
If we are all living to die or dying to live,
I still ask,
Is there a place for the women, their rights and joy in the society?
Because the pains, brutality and humiliation are unbearable,
Surprisingly, her name was Hope,
But honestly, she was hopeless.
The earth moans the earth and blood is soaked into dirt, the beatitude stands still and the mountain goat is grazing patiently on the hill. The birds are conducting Sunday morning mass and the leaders are prostrating on the grass; woeful tears are streaming down their faces and sins of their youth are scattered in open ditches, running streams, sidewalks and fortified manholes. Bullets wriggling in their flesh and some of them lay face down gasping for breath.
The whippoorwill is flying about and cannery is flying with a knife stuck in its throat. The sun is barely peeping out and the new is flying around the town. Some too busy to listen to it and other are too scared to absorb it. Everything came to a standstill and the news is already waving in the sky. Anxious eyes scrambling for answer and their body temperature are getting hotter. I mute my lips and take a gigantic leap over the three hundred- and fifty-kilometers precipice , clouds beneath clouds, create a waving movement in the sky and clouds underneath clouds spreading inside out. Hundreds of bodies lie still at the altar, swimming in their own pool while the morning scampers along with the machine gun trembling in their hands; they are getting ready for another Sunday mass
The Priests are purifying the grounds and they are spilling the incense all around; a strange sensation burst through the atmosphere and mourners are lining the streets watching destiny as it completes its final round. The old flag is lowered and the new flag is raised to the tower.
Pine cone appears in the middle of the earth and covers the earth’s surface in an oblique manner. They roll from the top of the hill pitching a big tenth in the middle of nowhere, silver, brown and grey they all had something unique to say. It’s regeneration, its human enlightenment it is the rebirth of the life that I have never lived, it’s my childhood yearning my adolescence longing and my adult new life, I have always dream of someone like you but can you really make my adult dream come through, and what about all the people around you I will carve the message on the pumpkin skin and sign it with a daffodils. The lantern is lit, the fireplaces is warm so meet my for coffee or tea before the break of dawn and take the silver pine cone with you.
When I get tired of the concrete and tar
there’s a place I can go, and not travel far,
that hasn’t been touched by progress at all;
nature stands still beneath gums growing tall.
And in amongst shadows with sprinkled light,
there’s rippling water and birds taking flight,
a sprinkling of colour amongst shades of green,
there’s burrows and scratching where something has been.
So I give you a picture of Billycan Creek
where flora and fauna are all quite unique,
and nothing is spoilt where I sit on a log
with my video camera and terrier dog.
A single stem orchid stands better than stark
with a deep purple flower that closes at dark,
and a coprosma tree with red berries quite sweet
is a pleasure to find with its bounty a treat.
In mistletoe weeping from a host in disguise
I video drifting jezebel butterflies,
and sitellas who cling to an old stringybark,
then high on a limb…the nest of a mudlark.
So I give you a picture of Billycan Creek
where flora and fauna are all quite unique,
and my camera is ready, with eyes like a hawk
where now with my dog on a casual walk.
Here the undulate water it constantly flows,
diverting ‘round logs and where overhang grows,
a haven’s provided for what could be prey
and in the shallows there’s a freshwater cray.
Some red brow firetails flit down for a drink,
there’s a burrow that’s new with no reason to think,
for a wombat has scratched out a hole and a mound;
but a wombat’s nocturnal who lives underground.
So I give you a picture of Billycan Creek
where flora and fauna are all quite unique,
and I’ve only a second to capture a scene,
so my camera is ready to help me convene.
The scent of boronia hangs heavy and strong,
lances of grass trees are a seed clustered prong,
white ants have covered an old stump with mud,
and Christmas bush bracts are now starting to bud.
On a hazel bush branch a grey fantail sits prone
in a nest made of cobwebs, to a tapering cone,
and a chattering chough tells me that I don’t belong,
now my camera has died so I can’t say it’s wrong…
So my battery is flat and I’m back at the log
with a film full of nature, and my terrier dog,
and you’ve read my picture of Billycan Creek
where flora and fauna are all quite unique.
©2011 Lindsay Laurie
Oh the images we freeze in time
the sweet, sweet scents that bring recall
the sharp and painful longing that belongings bring
for those lost or lingering on sheets of lavender
on shelves of shaving mugs - Old Spice
soap roped in shower stalls.
Oh the images warmed and torn, sun burnt to brown
upon what's left of glossy crenulated sheets
showing frozen plumped out peeks of
blistering love, gape toothed girls
and sour apple dreams.
We freeze in time on scrapes and shards
on compasses far from the woodlands scene
the tobacco scent of Papa, his yellowed fingers
as they touched my dimpled chin,
blue eyes behind wire rims.
The sweet, sweet scents that bring recall
White Shoulder's between her wholesome breasts
Mother's satin, Chantilly drenched negligee
and father's black onyx ring
ah, I still have him.
The sharp and painful longing that belongings bring
guilty pleasures hidden from the public's tut-tuting eyes
hoarded in ornate boxes, or pressed between stout boards
relentless, heartless is the passing
passing into the frayed, worn fringes
of our dollop of mirrored time.
For those lost or lingering on sheets of lavender
with drawers of balsam pillows to recall the olden days
bring forth the buds which bloom on taffy and apple pie
do not forget the taste of the love
the cotton candy kisses
their first chocolate cone.
On shelves of shaving mugs - Old Spice
soap roped in shower stalls, no sense comes
without its call to memory. Oh you do not sit alone,
play all the old tunes from radio days
and invite your loved ones
to come home.
This is my form it is called Etcetera.
Definition: Write a line or a stanza, take from that line or stanza words in the
order they were written [ from 1 word to whole lines or phrases] begin your
next stanza with it continue until you have written using all the words in the
order written in the line or stanza being explored in depth in a stream of
internal dialogue. ALL poetic devises/tropes may be used INCLUDING internal
rhyme. The verse may be as long or short as you wish, no meter required, no
syllable count.
I would say Etcetera and Blitz are sub forms of Free Verse - Stream of
Consciousness - Etcetera- Blitz
As little child walked in the field of flowers,
Picking and smelling them as she grows,
The pervading air fragrance of Guava
The majestic mellow Mangoes too in wet season,
The atmosphere of green garden eggs,
Caressing melody of crunchy carrots cracker,
The hidden colours of pineapples,
Bulb of yellow oranges lighted the line green trees,
Would be in season all year, including rags to
riches filling Maize
And pods shelled nourishing beans,
Surging umbrella leaves of papaya,
Shallow rooted coco-yam,the variegated
lettuce that brightens everyday,
With the crowded bananas are growing everyday,
But now,they are in wet tins and dry cartons
For that very busy mankind.
The landscapes within are beautifully measureless,
The Jacaranda and Tamarind trees had cast
Their shadows on the plain, and not forgetting,
The Silk-cottons and the wilderness of palm fruits
That grow tall and sure,
And under them we played cracking out nuts and
eating them,
But now, elevated long balcony, we have
That you stand and weep of the passing phases.
The sepulcher we all grew up in,
Might not be the same dungeon now,
And the cradle you are born in
Could well be the same abode now,
Thatched roof has given birth
To corrugated reflections,
Likewise the fragile asbestos fight for space with concretizing flat,
The mud debris has turned to bricks and plaster erect;
New galaxies of dwelling and scattered
About in a festival of designs;
Some are like an octagonal
A cone, a triangle and spec angular façade yet unseen;
All glasses, cupped and straight down
Like the eccentric mansions in heaven,
The spec tropic clime had turned suddenly,
The wind blows and smell of change,
The sun blaze down on man and space and warned,
Of great consequent yet in the
Outer-atmosphere would burst,
As we are cuddly warm
The poles wildly discharged their zillion captured
Water in a spasm of deluge right upon us…I think,
Like urchins, we fumble forgetting the next hour,
But what would happen is nature’s raison d’etre;
Man and his environ scope both have shibboleth gone pathways
And fast we are turning into artificial humankind.
Belladonna blue.
Scenes in a mystery, do.
Hope, need ye accrue?
Indeed! Heart, why bleed?
Lead? Others or ye? Be! Sea;
Four seasons; change? Strange...
Cold core, darkest door?
Ancient lore, forgotten shore?
Anything for sure?
Weathervane, point! Taut.
Stretching out without a doubt?
Shout? Pout? Win? En route...
Sickle of death god?
Hand, hold on! O carrion;
Seen thy crow? Slow? No...
Poets, why write? Sight.
Procession, no end? Night? Light.
Gods of thunder, roll.
Oracle, thy fate.
Sylvan, honeysuckle, wine.
Fates Three, Muses Nine.
Choose? Which direction?
Suffering, set us free? Plea!
Flea, heard ye of she...?
Yes, so lose heart not!
Automaton, run robot!
Thought, caught? Got the lot!
Deep creek, art thou wound?
Hurting? Me too. Life? Strife, knife.
Blink back, tears of years...
Ravine, emptying?
Silken purse on cotton string?
Sling, shot out? Without...
Great queen, thy machine!
Devour, cursed dog! Smog, slog.
Waterlog, thy bog...
Illuminate, Fate!
Crossing o'er the double strait?
Staggers in my gait...
Soldering, soldiers?
Aim for whites of eyes? Surprise!
Criticize the flies!
Tympani, turmoil.
Garden soil knows when to boil!
Ask and receive? Sieve!
Generation, gone?
Kingdom maun on grassy lawn?
Carrion crow, caw'n...
Pick up and flee? When?
Old master, disaster: been?
Yes, and, then again...
Fireplace, hearth! Hot stone!
Sparks on loan to thrones of bone.
Loan what ye own? Cone.
Ahead? Tread well, step.
Causality, thanks.
Fortune, maybe. Soon...
Vespers, thy bell. Well.
Fish, in ocean stay, today.
Runaway? Of course.
Black abysm, home?
Void, employed? Thus say some. But...
Just what is a job?
Hand of God? Well, no.
That's a position. Mission!
Purpose, define! Shine!
Shrine, thy offering.
Magic, thy ring. Ladder, rung.
Under tongue? Sing? Sung...
Glasses, clean? Seen? Lean.
Prospects, time to rise. Hies? Prize.
Hurricane, spin! Span...
Plan, made? Ocean, shade?
Game, played? Forest, glade? Trade? Slayed?
Anyway, delayed...
Gaunt gangrel, golden?
Stolen. White snow, hide nothing.
Loving mother, you!
Sail for home? Poem.
Stern caps on huge waves, flavor.
Salt, deep water, time...
All these racists with their lies,
filling the airwaves with propaganda and strife,
Stalins with soundbytes, Magellan their drivebys
the pasts dead end street -topically jacknifed
like it was the only course for a heading, point A to point B.
We pedestrians to lame a detour again, hobbled by peasantry.
But yevolt! Herr Commandant! the halt needs to screech,
only, the rich like you aint in the inner city!
we aint all nazis,
rich republicans or democrats of opportunity
those tobacco cotton czar b*tc**s aint got nothing to do with me
But for you angry youngbloods I see that your blinkers is on
,
flashing inequality, white privilege, and the radios singing that song-
"and the beat goes on and on and on", sheeples, 8 mile,
single file through Babylon.
yes we see you getting pulled over, and aint done nothin wrong
didn't join a gang or messover someone
How would you act if you were the privileged of hip hop and R&B
Say there's a lack of opportunity?
Like a cat coloring the kettle black, while the cauldron is full of Crystal bubbly.
No, you know love and understanding is a two way street
Now about Mr. Cam Newton and his claim at being a "different breed"
Sounding a bit like a young hitler, a complex of superiority
Now I know there's 31 flavors choco-malatto- San gusto consuella-injustice- demingo-......
so many ways to taste, defeat, scoop up the malaise
don't rub it in the face when you're on top of the heap,
make people suck on your chocolate dipped cone of invincibility,
pop cultured froyo with extra cream
bet it makes the taste of vanilla a fetish treat,
out of spite, cause African got some ultra fine honeys
how do you think they feel when you got a fetish for something not a bit more sweet
leaves a bad taste, in the palate of the nationality
too much high flying, smack talking,
mainlining, cult of punk personality
there aint no union in a phrase like "aint seen nothin like me"
I think you better stick with a spoon,
dig your way out of the backstabbery
a silver one for coddled athletes, who got nothin else to do
but compete for biggest cat in a cradle, big man blue
"but they never considered me"
Is there anybody else? I ask you, seriously, just you?