Long Cranked Poems
Long Cranked Poems. Below are the most popular long Cranked by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Cranked poems by poem length and keyword.
We are the eighth graders the mighty mighty eighth graders
Their mantra is loud and confident, a battle cry.
They sound proud and ready to face the day.
They are gathering a crowd of eight graders now.
They are an excited, jubilant happy mob.
We are the eight graders, the mighty mighty EIGHTH GRADERS!
Their first day in high school, and they are psyching themselves up.
Before they enter the high school as freshman, the bottom of the rung.
Suspecting they are going to be beaten down, put down, pushed down
Cranked, pranked, and possibly spanked by last year’s eighth graders.
They have older siblings, so they have been warned.
They march in as a mob, expecting the worst.
The meanest Missouri drought ever made us all pretty mad.
No one was happy, everyone gloomy and sad.
Mother Nature was holding us hostage, completely unfair.
There was misery, and dry mouth and mean in the air.
Morning dew was almost non-existent.
Prayer warriors gave up, stopped being persistent.
Children were in bad moods. Animals were dying.
Sickness was rampant, old people were sighing.
Air conditioners were cranked so high all over town,
The electricity in the neighborhoods kept shutting down.
People were sweating in offices, and swearing in their homes.
They were taking it out on their kids, no one seeing the gnomes.
The answer was no, no matter what a child wanted to do.
The dry earth splitting apart at her seems, made us all rather blue.
Alerts were put out, warning us to use as little water as we could.
Rain was something we had forgotten, given up on, dryness withstood.
Gardens were not being saved, they had dried up and evaporated.
This drought was like nothing my young mind had ever anticipated.
Hundred and ten degree days were the coolest ones this summer.
We were all mean and mad, and neighborhood morale was a bummer.
We sat around in our underwear and swore and groused.
We did not want to do anything. Blaming God and Foust.
Some of the few prayer warriors kept praying for rain.
When it arrived to relieve us, we could barely refrain.
We ran out to greet it, we danced and we shouted with glee.
We threw ourselves into each other’s arms, my neighbor and me.
We laughed with relief, and we danced in the rain.
When the rain came to greet us, we could barely refrain!
There are places that I have got to go.
I’ve got my tunes cranked on the radio
Playing “Wild Thing” while the kids all sing along.
It may not be a “Magic Carpet Ride”
But it will comfortably seat eight inside.
Well, to heck with what the culture says, I am right where I belong…
I’m the epitome of the macho man!
Got my kids strapped into the mini-van.
All those soccer moms ain’t got a thing on me.
Got it in control. Going just as planned.
Me and my kids in the mini-van.
Gonna hit the park and then get some groceries.
Just a rebel on the open road, that’s me.
There are times we just want to explode.
Got a craving for that open road.
I guess rebellion’s in my bones and in my blood.
I got my “Good Vibrations” going on.
With the windows down it’s all “Fun, Fun, Fun”
And with the stroller and the diaper bag I just look like such a stud…
You can’t put the top down, but that’s all right by me.
I’m just glad to share the ride with my growing family.
I’ll never win a drag race but I don’t really mind.
It gets us where we’re going. We can leave our cares behind…
There are shallow fools that laugh and mock
But the kids all tell me, “Dad, you rock!”
As we carefully observe all the traffic rules.
It’s no motorbike, it’s no pickup truck.
Doesn’t make my ego run amok.
And we laugh at those who look down their nose for we know that we are cool…
Well, I got some news from the lovely wife.
Another little change in my “rebel” life.
Some might disagree, but I think it’s really neat.
So, I pack the kids up and strap them all in.
And we head on down the road again
To the retail store for the coming “one more”! We need a brand new baby seat…
I’m the epitome of the macho man!
Got my kids strapped into the mini-van.
All those soccer moms ain’t got a thing on me.
Got it in control. Going just as planned.
Me and my kids in the mini-van.
Gonna hit the park and then get some groceries.
Just a rebel on the open road, that’s me.
I had glorious plans for my life.
Warm ink transforming blank pages,
destined to be a best seller!
I felt specially bound.
Printing press cranked out
a glossy-colored cover,
my name plastered
in bold black letters for all to see.
Signed inside by my creator
I only rested on the bookstore shelf
for three bitter hours
before someone adopted me.
Held gingerly each night by gentle fingers,
eagerly offering my very soul
until snores dropped me
on soft, disheveled blankets.
Word by word and line by line,
page by page, and chapter by chapter.
Night after night, I was dynamite
till shut tight.
Is that all there is?
I've slept for ten years now... in a box,
in a cobwebbed corner of a cluttered closet,
dressed up and no place to go.
I'm suffocating!
There are so many things in life that give me so much pleasure,
Family, friends and fishing all of which I treasure.
But having my ice cream fix, ah, I'm the happiest guy on earth.
Never mind that such ecstasy adds to my ever-expanding girth!
My spouse closely monitors the types of foods that I consume,
Concerned that cholesterol will bring about my early doom!
So surreptitiously I sneak about for my ice cream ration,
Fearful of getting caught and causing untold consternation!
I fondly recall as a lad the ice cream socials that we had,
When friends and neighbors got together with my Mom and Dad.
Bringing their favorite ice creams to mix in hand-cranked freezers.
Ah! Such delectable concoctions prepared by those old geezers!
A hot fudge sundae is a treat that I really savor,
Or a thick shake made with real ice cream of any flavor,
And every chance that I get I sneak a luscious banana split.
Am I concerned about those calories? Not one little whit!
Some folks relish sherbet, but I think that is sissy stuff.
They can have my share of that, but of ice cream I can't get enough!
When I cease to function you can etch upon my stone this theme:
"Nothing could make his eyes gleam like a bowl of ice cream!"
The whistle blows, the chugging starts -
A steam train ride in France -
For those who like to try things
From the past, this is your chance.
Since when it’s time to turn around,
The leading car’s unlatched
And driven to a turntable
Before it’s reattached.
The locomotive then gets cranked,
By hand! one circle ‘round.
The engineer next drives to where
The once-caboose is found.
The train is reconnected
And goes back the way it came,
Passing trees and giant rock formations,
Looking all the same.
An aqueduct appears and there’s
An eagle in the sky,
But what impresses most on board
As we go zipping by
Is a trio by the river,
Down below and quickly viewed,
Being very French, relaxing
Near the water, in the nude.
My average means I don’t have to take final exams.
So my bachelor's degree is a finished product.
I cranked it out, all that’s left now is the walk (May 18th).
Let’s call it my nearly forgotten masterpiece.
My schedule says that I start a 1-year ‘master of public health’ degree in 38 days.
It was my mom’s idea. She said, “You need to keep active” (pre- med-school).
It sounds crazier to me now than it did last year, when I was accepted and agreed.
Now, I feel like some chary, aging showgirl who’s about to be hustled back on-stage.
But what’s life without massive compromise?
Anyway, don’t cry for me. I’m still sizing it all up, I’ll figure it out.
I suppose we’re all out there hustling.
It’s our response to slowing med-school admissions,
those glitches in the medical, industrial education complex
or that’s how the narrative’s shaped, anyway.
It’s not the additional work that bothers me, I’m regular worker bee,
It’s the perma-threat of loneliness.
I’m already packing. Leaving feels real
and I'm surfing this maudlin wave tonight—shading deep blue.
The simple march of time will take away friends I’ve grown to love.
We’ve allegorised and transformed one another by proximity.
I’ve really loved it here.
.
.
Songs for this:
Graduation (Friends Forever) by Vitamin C
Graduation Day by Tony Rivers & The Castaways
Running on cliff edges cranked her adrenalin
Stagger of gravels' release, tipped in avalanche
Scared her terrifically, able to surrendour then
Driven to dare's taunt irresistible, emancipated
Victims of her craft came willingly to her dim den
Always too enthused, wiped smiles with debauchery
Fools drooled like puppies, helpless lap belt men
Guzzled foggy grape juice, succumbed to her sorcery
Smoothly blended purple potion contained correct mix
Floppy neck despondent combined tiger voracious
Aphrodite's ribs thronged with rotten achievement, a fix
Light in guy's terrified faces fed her climb solacious
Absolute conquer of weakened ones, without any speech
Gleam in their pupil huge grape gluttoned eyes, pleadingly
Waist up incapable, claimed her pleasure self beseeched
Entire body force in their groins satiated men immediately
Squared claws clamped concave flanks, rose from exhale
Her wearer's temperature sat at forty degree celcius fever
Tigers never went down without a fight, Aphrodite impaled
Traipsed her way stickily to the tip, slide down took forever
Lame, head spin sickened, next hour's lure gladly drags
Fish lipped flung fellow to her front yard, under a shrub
Sombre, cynical, sneer mouth man, her true rival, perhaps
- maybe Aphrodite would let this one remain undrugged
13th September 2020
It had been foolhardy maybe as it did finish a tad tardy..
To watch the latest greatest nighttime cricketing mystery
Seriously sublime Darryl Mitchell in his delirious prime..
The bells chime the Kiwi men again with zen made history
Strolling even with New Zealand’s second string attack bowling..
Kohli & Co hellbent T20 slaves sent to their graves by the knaves..
By the underdog faves and endless waves of Black Caps rolling..
So you could say after this hooray foray that the Indian takeaway
The hosts death wish now the swish go to dish for a Black Cap fan…
Crow for the 2nd year in a row them dicey and us just too spicy!
Quips about bananas nadir and to South D an ironic cheer or sneer
After dafter no rigour or vigour self fulfilling prophecy of Baz Bull…
Hard not to sni*ger egos not heroes falter at bigger the lie high altar…
The reason the unjust willy nilly silly treason of Baz Bull lust in season
Elephant in the room must be the trigger for Ashes to Ashes..Dust to Dust…
Dank England tanks..stank were rank thanks to Kiwi yippee phalanx nirvanas
Fillips of Indian trips hall of fame names in a jumble stumble thrown in skips
We mumble Kiwis humble not one for boasts but everyone toasts the hosts
Getting spanked as the pressure cranked were outflanked by Mitchell & Phillips..
A “mention” in the Master’s ante-room.
Another February had arrived,
with dirty snow and heavy, slate-grey skies.
(One couldn’t help observing, on the sly,
the Master’s knees were blanket-draped
beneath his desk.) No wigs or gowns on show.
A minor hearing in a puny case.
They call it “inter partes” when both sides
turn up. Some point-at-issue had loomed large,
and we were here to tussle over it.
This room, so Ruskinesque, with frescoes
high on every wall, so hard to heat,
was one great chilly barn. The speaker’s breath
plumed out before him. “And my learned friend … “
Our leader’s voice, so sensible in its drone,
so sweetly reasonable, continued on,
so redolent of wintry afternoons,
like hissing logs a-burning in the grate.
Those practised highs and lows, mellifluous,
his easy-listening tone, so bland, so blithe,
relying on the case of this-or-that,
distinguishing the precedent of such,
“I think it was Lord Blinkwell who opined …”
Two hundred years ago – a little less –
the young Charles Dickens wasted days in here
(the chances are, here in this very room,
observing dreary sleet run down the windows),
mired in this solemn nonsense. Might it be,
he swore an oath – if ever he escaped,
he’d never take life seriously again?
If so, this ponderous symphony in grey,
as glum as Shostokovich etched in stone,
has cranked out clowns. There may be more to come.