Long Cranking Poems
Long Cranking Poems. Below are the most popular long Cranking by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Cranking poems by poem length and keyword.
WILL-SLAP-ROCK
Perilous mixed up in the industry,
Troubled rumbled "situationship" tainted gentry,
epitomize a couple's open chemistry?
Oh...!!! What a timely tangle
that spangled in a world of Illuminati triangle.
Society's predicament sums up a night of quagmire
even though the story ends up ephemeral.
In betwixt the slap and Rock
was a moment with Chris and his long talk.
In betwixt Will Smith's "Oscar best actor" win,
was a comedy of errors and his open sin;
Global warming was the cheek of Chris Rock,
Oblivious of the disgrace that he couldn't duck
but had to be man enough
to receive that hot stuff,
steaming like a hot stove.
Twas like a Hollywood movie
that makes you shock, jocund or moody,
like when Mom hits you in front of your friends
and you act like it didn't hurt.
And so, "everybody hates Chris"
for cranking-up a bald joke about Jada Smith
but missed the moment Will noticed Jada wasn't having it
and had to slap Chris Rock for it,
just to make up for laughing so hard in a bit.
And just like that in one hour half,
this saga was passed around more than his wife.
Vick Manuel Poetry {VMP}
Copyright©March 28th, 2022.
How ideal to luxuriate
supposed divine right frill
maximizing climate control
with matter of fact bravado
creature comfort pang to fulfill
consequent flagrant portent
to exercise freewill
beware controlled environment
pays hefty bill
cracking heat as
temperature gets chill
cumulative destructive
ecological footprints generated,
thus advisable to swallow
figuratively bitter pill,
herewith suggested
binary/digital quill,
cuz unchecked energy
consumption will
necessitate fossil fuels
subjected to frack and drill
invariably contribute
render moot no rhyme
or reason for Jack and Jill
to hastily clamber uphill
fetching pail of possibly
tainted, ruined, polluted... water
evidenced courtesy eutrophication
algal blooms, decimated krill
aquatic flora and fauna stockstill
meaning... untenable for life
perhaps percolating, spewing, zapping...
seepage from landfill
nsync with detritus
many industries spill,
not necessarily directly
linkedin to cranking thermostat until
warmth ideal for barenaked ladies,
who cavort, frolic,
viz yule eyes imagistic poetic skill
veritably lighting boathouse row
reflections shimmering, scintillating,
glistening off Schuylkill
deceptive brilliant appearance
unsafe toxic drinking water courtesy mill
yens flowing electrons to power
industrial secretes no longer confidential
public knowledge and awareness critical
to stem tide allowing, enabling,
and providing juice to sustain treadmill
ever faster rat race pace of life cozily housing
*****sapiens hermetically sealed against
extreme temperatures,
ye must adapt experiencing chill
bundling layers of clothes -
case in point yours truly,
who also keeps windows ajar
refreshing brisk air lungs to fill.
A Sequel
To
The Weathered Old Barn
By: Tom Wright
11-3-04
A stranger came by just the other day,
with an offer that set me to thinking.
He had seen my old barn from the state highway,
and up my driveway he sped just cranking.
He was typical city, I could tell by his clothes,
from his hands, his car, and his talk.
The old barn leaned as the south wind blows,
and its distance not too great to walk.
It was a handsome barn back in its day,
before years of snow, and howling winds.
Its paint now gone and wood is silvery gray,
Its tired old tin top flaps, sways, and bends.
It set me to thinking as eyes surveyed the field,
and I asked, ”for this barn why such a yen?”
He replied this old barn would have ample yield,
to line the walls of our new home’s den.
He said, ”try buying paint that looks like this,
weathered from storms and summer’s scorch.
In our new home it would bring pure bliss,
with planking left for planters on the porch.”
We’re much the same, you and I, you know,
but it’s the inside in us where beauty grows.
Our hair turns silver gray and our steps slow,
and why we’re left, rest assured, God knows.
As our years pass, he uses our hard wealth,
laboring at beautifying our spotted souls.
We should thank him daily for good health,
as we endeavor to play life’s given roles.
But some day soon the time will come,
when our tabernacle too, will be hauled away.
So forsake him not, as is the manner of some,
but faithfully serve him until that day.
Then we may add beauty to our father’s realm,
because of past seasons that have gone by.
Friends, are quiet angels, keeping us at the helm,
when our wings have forgotten how to fly.
While captains sail for foreign shores,
For thunder, reefs, adventure and gales;
I dream of sock drawers besides warm clocks,
While kettles sing their steamy saucy tales.
While my passport sleeps stone-cold under the bed,
I never count the days that I've lost,
While toasting thick-cut slices of bread—
I'm a homemade salad, chopped and tossed.
I love my domestics—they're all such homely bliss;
Why go out when that's so inane and insane?
My old routine—It's no hit or miss—It's no abyss,
Just sweet pure sameness, so pleasantly mundane.
Home is where the soul loves its slippers,
Wearing a weathered coat and weary pride;
Where old regrets are served as kippers,
With poached eggs, sunny soft yellow inside.
The old grandfather clock in the hall
Chimes seven bells: "Are all hands aboard?"
Not to call the watch or some tavern brawl,
But to signal a buffet meal served sideboard.
I fold the clothes to patter-pats on window panes.
Sweep the floors dancing to ye old rock and roll,
Wash the dirty dishes over and over again,
Cranking up the karaoke to fire up my soul.
The garden knows my cold bare feet,
Better than cobbled stone roads beyond;
I pick herbs and fresh green leaves so sweet,
Then I turn the soil, and clean the pond.
So raise your mugs, I'm home tonight—
Heave away, haul away, let me stay,
At home in paradise of bliss and delight
Belayed and stayed beneath the archway.
So haul away, I'm homeward bound,
Where kettles sing of choppy seas;
Where my same old routine is crowned—
With a gravy boat, and baked mac-and-cheese.
Big muscles of the organ grinder, his biceps burning.
Cranking springs, the tired, but cheerful, Italian chap.
Many chapters of his life on streets of cold cement.
His beard, silver tone; his worn hat filled with coins.
You’d expect for the old legs to be moving, it rests
as the tunes be calling, beckoning through windows.
Accordion sounds be arousing smiles and curiosity.
Melancholy dirges wet the shoulders of the bitties.
Again the pedals and thighs grind along, travelling
as the kids and townsfolk wave goodbye. On his
merry way, feet tapping, ladies dancing, men puffing
on their pipes and cigars. The music says so long.
And another group gathers in the waning sun, waiting
for their favorite song; and the grinder gladly plays,
telling a story, with his barrel rolling, his pins caressed.
Kaput - he moves into a museum, a blast from the past.
A Gemini, I get bored with a new hobby the day it begins to be a hobby
I am still painting and cartooning, but my enthusiasm is waning.
I used to work on seven paintings a week. I am down to two.
Poetry cropped up in my life about three years ago.
By forcing myself to write ten poems a day, I have killed that desire.
Don’t think I am not cranking out the ten poems though. I am.
I think I have gained thirty pounds the past three years.
I am sure it is due to complete boredom.
I like sparkly, shiny, new, weird things.
I have not been in the stores for over a year and a half.
Fear of dying of Covid-19 has taken care of that old urge.
I used to spend fifty dollars a day in stores.
Now I have money in the bank, and boring dull hobbies.
Being a Gemini, I need something new.
And fast if you please.
Calling to the world from within my four walls
Is not my cup of tea
Maybe beer.
The humming birds die due to cellphone frequencies
I have decided to quit talking
Scavenging on littered words
Had never been my kwan
The truce of dexterity
Had been dipped into the labyrinth of blood, love and despair
My mind is treading on the cloud of nothingness
I seek for the time portal
Squatted down to have a better look at the world
From within the four walls.
I lay back on my once-fluffy pillow
Dream the memories
The cranking of the door is defeaning
Soundproof, I had lived
Mute is good,
Afterall, what is more important for the tongue..
To talk?
To taste?
To kiss....?
The long hours like a deathly hallow
Purge my soul
Like the Devil's dandelion
I flutter in the still, stale air
As, I wait
From within my four walls.
Would a starry sweep
Alight against an engine
As seemingly the great aghast retain
The seven sent, the cranking, a bespoken
A hotel, a precipice, a lantern
Will witted the seats perplexed
Weighted in among outlook
So lore is not the shattered page claiming
Wine and windows, the hoisted village lit
From one to another against the 8th
The moon swing eradicate
Would take offense like a game
The sweet success of thine party strewn rile
Wheeling the window lifting a ship house
The commotion to view earth from afar
How afar the moon and twixt
Bells by the 8 door exit
Always the shift of 7 flat
The feast of proportional enemy
Cast across the ozone, observing
The visit of views, the Space Hotel sights
Such an assertion wild, stars
The great Space Hotel alright
This summer's evening still echoes
with the distinguishable city' noises:
the screams of adolescents,
the cranking of cars and motor-bikes
the loud rotating blades of helicopters,
and the blasting music
from luxurious convertibles
that unawarely tranfix...
We can get away
from this madness,
and find a silent,
infrequent place
where nothing has to be hushed;
where the firmament
emanates a perfect peace
to submerge us by awe
as we coalesce
in a lascivious wish...
We can return to be innocent,
and lean over blue waters
to cover the still lake
with beautiful,velvety roses
as the gondolier enthralls us
with his poignant vocals...
The quite geese float
in the aromatic lake of flowers,
inperplexed by our presence
as we lean over blue waters,
so intoxicated by the balsamy air,
to invoke and inflame
an incessant desire
and incur no regrettable fault...
Days passing on by
Nights sometimes I try
Finding the answers to the why
Seeking to find
Some piece of mind
Keep looking over here
Over there
Eventually, that is where I'm bound
Under the ground
Can't change
Nor rearrange
Always stays the same
Whosoever be to blame
Can't find Peace
No release
Forever in the dark
Can't find the park
What a lark
Night forever remains
Echoes in these chains
All parts that are the stains
Forever is the night
It's endless flight
The future that I see
Hearts no longer free
Hunger that can't be fulfilled
Your water is naturally distilled
All gets you killed
Wanking
Cranking
Man kind the living zombie, hiding in the night
Hiding from the light.
Taken without a fight
Lost is the light
The river of lost souls
Forever it flows
past my door
Wanting ....ever more...
City of enternal desire
Caused this fire
Forever it burns higher
Taking all
On a Tumbling fall
Never to end
The souls it does bend
To hell it will send
..Never to mend..
Used to be a part
A shattered heart
Mended
Winded
But not the same
Lost part of my brain
A dove
Unable to love
always the dirty white glove
Search you will find
Things that remind
Things better off left behind
Life....... there lies the stain
Getting it rubbed against the grain
Waiting
Waiting
No hate
Stepping beyond that simple fate
Empty of tomorrows
Of all the sorrows
Burned out desires
No spark of the fire
Embers has faded
Degraded
Burned away
.....Nothing left to say....