Long Cranks Poems
Long Cranks Poems. Below are the most popular long Cranks by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Cranks poems by poem length and keyword.
Everything’s going down thanks to the tangerine clown
His cohorts blood sports “muppets” the collective noun
This lout every town does rout either drought or drown
Farce as the grass burns turns brown is so easy to frown
Naked truth everyone knows about Emperor’s new gown
Half baked common sense forsaked with his faked crown
Bereft at not deft sheer heft of non stop theft by top tier
Tries to smear races from other places & anyone que*r
Walk the plank every rank does spank cranks up a gear
It is clear this is the dystopian nadir the world does fear
Does appear the end’s near just jeer at all we hold dear
Bunkum as do strum our spectrum with their plectrum
Sneer at us out of their rectum.. but still no referendum
Fair dinkum is a nostrum atop the rostrum our panacea
Little wins that dampens the din of the mandarins sins
Society spins beaming grins replace steaming chagrins
Ignore the scheming as that’s how the dreaming begins
So let’s save the teens and free them from their screens
Let them see it’s not all about these mean online ravines
Prevent their descent as everyone does vent their spleens
Vanquish their anguish as do languish in internet latrines
Mother Nature has the sheens her kaleidoscopic canteens
Hypnotic colours she preens bathed & swathed in greens
Quixotic pleasure of leisurely stroll which your soul cleans
By any means chill your beans is a skill which’s in our genes
Shun despotic rhetoric be an envoy for joy of other cuisines
Weans ourselves out of the trough with our poetic vaccines
Exotic almost erotic scenes all feel like real kings & queens
So when that obscene tangerine clown again goes to town
Nature will be our saviour so come on do yourself a favour
So much free flavour to savour if you look up and not down
TYPE FORMS
BLITZ
tight fits
good spits
quick bursts
same first
inking
linking
FREE VERSE
immerse
in verse
roaming
storming
MINICHU
perplex
context
twelve laps
recaps
reward
unfolds
DEESWHEAT
sounds neat
on beat
cranks awe
tanka
cinquain
enchained
triplet
strip set
FOOTLE
versed brand
by Strand
two-line
may rhyme
trochee
swift spree
witty
ditty
one foot
output
HAIKU
small views
soothe you
nature
treasure
YALTO
word rows
in tows
notice
mini list
statement
intent
adjoint
make point
SUZETTE PRIME
sublime
no rhyme
inject
prime set
real surd
numbered
LIMERICK
pun shtick
risk it
in time
punchline
TOO MANY WORDS
there’s herds
for nerds
new forms
brainstorms
don’t fuss
adjust
all’s fair
who cares
expand
like Strand
No objection to cold weather, but...
ah jest wanna boomerang back into the womb
to escape unrelenting forbidding gloom.
perhaps cuz mine generation
nsync with baby boom.
No matter birth canal
long since got breached,
countless (three plus) scores of years
I quickly grew
impossible mission to plunge
(think Nestea commercial)
headfirst back into utero,
yours truly haint got any
handy dandy blues clue,
nonetheless said wish -
I broach to you,
whether ye reside in Baku
Guangzhou
Kalamazoo
Kathmandu
Peru
Thimphu
Timbuktu.
Sudden pang roared awake
nsync like blazing saddles
hot enough to sizzle steak
torpid, humid, and
arrid extra dry to take
breath away analogous vacuumed
courtesy fire breathing dragon
chilling parched scales in great lake
already this doubting
Thomas doth hanker
for global warming yore
less than six months ago
geesh for goodness sake,
when Earth did bake
triple digit temperatures
no thirst could slake,
thus intravenous feeding
in tandem with trach
still inadequate to brake
yours truly did pine... for chill
against dehydration, ah only to wake,
when came the morrow,
where Jack and Jill
sweat buckets, this
before they climbed uphill
akin to madding crowd
clamoring, thirsting, gulping...
every last drop
essentially emptying damn
immense reservoir spill
futilely swilling parched lips till...
Old cranks shrugged off
exceptionally hot weather, and did scoff
younger generation's creature comforts
old geezers recalled
back in the day
as laddies and Tom boy
lassies did slough
no trespassing signs
skinny dipping after they shuck off
clothes giddily swinging
atop highest bough
playing hooky averse
learning would ever payoff
pitying other kids in school
former gathering rosebuds...
around lunchtime hunger
relishing stealing stroganoff
under nose of Mister Groff,
one former German World War II,
who colluded with American "boys"
despite heavily decorated luftwaffe
and posthumously honored
Veterans day getting last laugh!
How small we were sitting in the backseat of that mammoth car. We were dwarfed on the giant sofa-like bench waiting like a great amusement ride about to start. While we waited we explored our new surroundings. The lining inside the cavernous car was short-hair and smooth and as we ran our small hands across the surface, it felt like a young boy’s scalp after his first summer haircut. It was grey, the color of an elephant toy that had been won by our uncle last year at the fourth of july carnival. We explored the shiny chrome ashtrays. You could see your reflection in them like a mirror and we wondered if the owner used them to shave in the mornings as his chauffeur drove him to work. They were spring-loaded and snapped viciously at our little fingers. They smelled of foul ash and stale gum. There were large cranks with polished brown knobs, handles that controlled the windows. Turning them took all our strength like cranking the hand pump for water in the kitchen at Grandmas house on the farm. There were baby windows beside the big ones and they closed with little widget clips, swiveling inward so you could control the direction and amount of air that rushed in when the car was in motion. Too small to see outside, we sat dwarfed in the backseat watching the tops of trees go by and playing with a doll and a green plastic soldier. The doll was homemade from an old sock. The soldier, alone, separated from an army of plastic soldiers that came in a bag we could not afford. He was found, as most toys were, in the gutter or on the schoolyard, abandoned by the more affluent children. Small, simple toys that would not be missed from a rich kids over-stuffed closet. We knew we had to be quiet, for to make noise would be to draw attention that would come in the form of punishment. A slap on the bare thigh of a young boy in shorts or a young girl in a dress would leave a red welt for hours. The ride always seemed so very long that soon our patience would give out and a bump in the road would trigger a tidal wave of emotions; a push escalating to a shove, a pinch and then a shout. The crested wave would end in a crashing roar with a parents’ curse, a stinging slap, and a whimpering cry. Only puddles remaining, tide pools composed of wet pants and tears.
Beneath the city the river fishing is good.
I roam with tackle and pole below those wiggling tapeworms
Wound around the cement underbelly of bridges
Devouring the guts of the city’s glamour
Down here where shadows are long as green moss
And the voices of old black dudes echoes to casts
“Damn motherer, you crossed my line!”
Splash.
To catch catfish on a wad of bread is a worthy fight.
It takes shoulder chest and wrist and it’s not just the fish
But the current of the Grand River pulling us over
That sucks us in like a Thanksgiving ladle
Into a whirlpool of brown gravy spilled on a dinner table.
The trouble with catfish is that they swallow the hook
Beyond the use of pliers
And when they’re too small
We cut the line
With a lack of guilt like Old Testament God
Throwing the creature back
Hoping for a miracle.
Logs are tipped over along the gooey shores
And upon them painted turtles sleep
Sunning like leprosy sores.
Even from down here in the cool mist umbrella from summer
We can see the smokestack vapor
Twisting overhead like a genie rubbed from its lamp
Thin at its head thick at its feet still stuck in its copper mother
Arms outstretched like a Christ-cloud spooking the sun.
There are other mysterious pipes
Lips rust red as strawberries
Bloomed from the banks dripping silver
While mouthing a lullaby
To the muck
Like a whore at the end of her exhausting shift.
A railroad bridge rattles to life
Swollen by the axles of its returning soul
A freight train pounding out the Blues
A rhythm meant for bass and drums
That part we don’t sing
But the swing that keeps our foot stomping
And in that noise
Software girls flutter about like orange ribbons
Untied from the hair of the downtown towers
Drifting along the river trails at lunch
Jogging in pony tails and pink shorty shorts
Fingertips stuck into their cotton ears
Ever on the lookout for us
The creeps.
The trick is to not make eye contact
I mean us with them
The fishermen the engineers the long forgotten wrenches
Screwing cranks turning knobs yanking hooks from helpless fish
Drilling the pylons through chemical gold
That holds up this magnificent city.
No objection to cold weather, but...
ah jest wanna boomerang back into the womb
No matter birth canal
long since got breached,
countless scores of years
I quickly grew
impossible mission to plunge
(think Nestea commercial)
headfirst back into utero,
haint got any got any
handy dandy blues clue,
nonetheless said wish
I broach to you,
whether ye reside in Baku
Guangzhou
Kalamazoo
Kathmandu
Peru
Thimphu
Timbuktu.
Sudden pang roared awake
nsync like blazing saddles
hot enough to sizzle steak
torpid, humid, and
arrid extra dry to take
breath away analogous vacuumed
courtesy fire breathing dragon
chilling parched scales in great lake
already this doubting
Thomas doth hanker
for global warming yore
less than six months ago
geesh for goodness sake,
when Earth did bake
triple digit temperatures
no thirst could slake,
thus intravenous feeding
in tandem with trach
still inadequate to brake
yours truly did pine... for chill
against dehydration, ah only to wake,
when came the morrow,
where Jack and Jill
sweat buckets, this
before they climbed uphill
akin to madding crowd
clamoring, thirsting, gulping...
every last drop
essentially emptying damn
immense reservoir spill
futilely swilling parched lips till...
Old cranks shrugged off
exceptionally hot weather, and did scoff
younger generation's creature comforts
old geezers recalled
back in the day
as laddies and Tom boy
lassies did slough
no trespassing signs
skinny dipping after they shuck off
clothes giddily swinging
atop highest bough
playing hooky averse
learning would ever payoff
pitying other kids in school
former gathering rosebuds...
around lunchtime hunger
relishing stealing stroganoff
under nose of Mister Groff,
one former German World War II,
who colluded with American "boys"
despite heavily decorated luftwaffe
and posthumously honored
Veterans day getting last laugh!
The iron bell in the back of
Bramble's Toy Emporium
chimed midnight with a dull,
metallic clang.
From the dark shadows of
the clearance aisle, a gaunt
figure slithered out, its skin
the color of bruised parchment.
It was the Ghoulish Ghoul, a
creature made of discarded
stitching, stuffing, and old,
forgotten playground dust.
He gathered the skeletal
remains of old porcelain
dolls into a circle and cleared
his raspy, rattling throat.
"Gather round, little plastic
souls, and listen to how the
toys here stay alive," the Ghoul
whispered.
"You think children buy dolls
because they are cute, but the
dolls actually choose their owners."
His yellow fingernails tapped
against a hollow wooden rocking
horse, making it swing violently
back and forth.
Every time a child hugs one
of us tightly at night, we steal
a tiny sliver of their warm, living
breath.
A shelf of mechanical monkeys
suddenly began to softly clap
their cymbals in a slow, rhythmic
death march.
By winter, that child grows paler,
slower, and colder, until they
can no longer jump or run or
play.
The Ghoul grinned, exposing rows
of sharp teeth carved out of rusted
metal jacks and broken dice.
Then, while the house sleeps,
the doll slips out of bed and drags
the child's hollow shell down the
stairs.
The glass eyes of a hundred
Teddy bears glinted in the
moonlight, staring down at
the empty room.
They bring the empty child
right back here to Bramble's,
down into the cold, damp
basement workshop.
He pulled a heavy, silver
needle from his velvet coat,
threading it with thick, black
twine.
"We stuffed the hollow skins
with cotton candy, sew the lips
shut, and pop in two shiny, black
buttons for eyes."
The Ghoul pointed a crooked,
skeletal finger directly through
the storefront window, out into
the empty street.
"Look closely at the window
display tomorrow morning,
little ones, and see if you
recognize the new stock."
The jacks- in- box in the
corner began to turn their
cranks by themselves,
playing a distorted, slowed-
down melody.
"Go to sleep now, lock your
toy boxes tight, and pray
your favorite doll isn't
hungry tonight."
With a wet, wheezing
chuckle, the Ghoul melted
back into the shadows as
The final jacks- in- the- box
popped open.
Old and Alone Through the City
Old and alone, autumn wanders bare through the city,
A smoke of memories coiling around the streetlamps,
The woman dissolved into the arms of another mirage,
And the dog grew old begging for the warmth of days.
The child who was never born wanders through the fog,
A bodyless shadow knocking at autumn's gates,
And the wind and the sun, old brothers of a lifetime,
Lean on each other on the steps of forgetting.
The old organ-grinder, with his leg of wood and dream,
Cranks out a melody rusted like a wound,
The old prostitute sells her shadow, the unclosed
Coffin of her longing under a pagan moon.
Someone in a graveyard whispers a song of wax,
An old head trembles, hollow as a scorched bell tower,
The tree shakes its leaves like a final summer,
The idiot from the commercial smiles, a wounded mask.
The whole city trembles, full of loneliness,
Crowds of old young people flow like a river of wax,
All of them, everything, old and alone, carrying in their chests a fortress
Of silences fallen to their knees, under the same bitter snowfall.
Ruth Ann is a subcriminal
Picks up a pen from offices and banks
She did not plan or mean to be a thief
She slides them into her purse without antic or cranks
Unfortunately this habit led to others
She shoplifts clothes, and a jackhammer
She is no longer welcome in homes of her brothers
So sad that she eventually ends up in the slammer
She should have never stolen from Daddy Hank
For his new trophy wife is a huge ugly crank
The family tries to get Daddy to back off,
But all wife-y has to do is give a come-hither-cough
So Ruth Ann ended up behind bars for life
And her daddy is still pleased with his mean trophy wife.
A lot of fancy gizmos befuddle me in this technological age,
Where perplexing computers, texting and twittering are all the rage!
I can empathize with the feller who renounced horse and buggy days,
To subdue the baffling horseless carriage that became all the craze!
Clyde Schlunk reluctantly retired his faithful horse and buggy wheels.
He was the first in town to own one of those new fangled automobiles!
'Twas simple to harness a horse, feed him oats and shoe him all those years.
Now he must master complex clutches, cranks and shifting gears!
'Twas hard to break years of habits spent driving a buggy and horse.
He still had his buggy whip near at hand in the automobile of course!
When trying to stop the machine he'd yell, "Whoa! Nellie! Whoa!"
As he tried to avoid a tree or slid through slippery sleet and snow!
His erratic driving terrified chickens, horses and little old ladies,
As he whipped about that sedate little town like a bat out of Hades!
The only pain he suffered from his horse was a kick now and then.
But when cranking the carriage he busted his knuckles over and over again!
He still hollered "haw" to turn to the left and "gee" to turn to the right!
Did the town folks' ridicule bother him? Not by a blame sight!
Clyde never learned how to control those forty horses under the hood.
He couldn't rein 'em in causing all sorts of havoc in the neighborhood!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
© All Rights Reserved
Placed No. 2 in Joyce Johnson's "Your Very Best" Contest - February 2011