Long Craw Poems
Long Craw Poems. Below are the most popular long Craw by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Craw poems by poem length and keyword.
DRUMBEAT
The early morning silence,
Pierced by the melody of the birds,
And coarse craw of the cock,
The bleating of the goats and sheep for fresh fodders,
Squirrels hopping to and fro,
Devouring the ripe palm nuts atop the palm trees,
Leaves glittering from the morning dews,
And the caterpillar found its abode slippery.
The grey hair that breaks the kolanut,
The hot drink that follows to waken the body as grey hairs would say,
The entreaties made to the "Chi",
Local brooms held by the kids greets the brownish sand,
Morning ash cartered away from the fire place,
The palm wine tapper sets out for the day,
Many a thing happened swiftly,
And morning was gone .
The loud sound of the ikoro,
Echoing in all corners of the village,
Beckoning on valours to array themselves,
I jolted out out of my hut,
In my redcap and my flute at hand,
With my flute played appraisal notes,
To announce my arrival to my hero.
Behold the hero,
The lion that kills the tiger,
"Odumnaegbuagu"
The glory of his people,
How strong art thou oh man of valour,
Lets appear in the battlefield ,
For the day is of victory,
Oh! My hero.
Just Do Not Be
Waves of sadness overflow my heart
I tumble, no care at all for a new start
Buried under autumn leaves
I hug the soil, knowing deeper so much the sweeter to be
I hear a voice over looking me
Don’t be like that!
Get up and carry on
Enough of the silly sadness lets move on…
I am anxious I say
Why they all ask, what’s up your craw?
Not a thing, why nothing at all
Then don’t be like that, DO NOT
I think of ropes, of tall building and fires
I think of ending it all, got no desire
You think I enjoy this feeling that death holds
The answer is always, don’t be like that
How can such educated ones be such fools?
Do they think we choose the sadness, our ugly muse?
Do they think we chose the darkness and always lose?
Shaking with anxiety, I can hardly but move
Don’t be like that echoing in me ears
See a doctor about all these fears?
All I see is the empty glass
Wishing it full, with two more pills to blast
No one really cares about you
I am sure for me this is true
When I was dead, after months I was blue
A year later someone opened the door
I kid you not, they looked and stared
Why did he have to do a thing like that?
From the depths of hell, I laughed and I spat
Before the killing of a thousand deaths
I broke a leg and walked slow at best
They all showed concern, said what can I do?
If they can see the wound
Apparently they may care for you
I replied with a bitter taste in me insides
Don’t be like that
Epilog
I only wanted someone to care
I pulled the trigger
Cause I followed the dare
Now tiss I, covered on the wall
Hasn’t a care in the world
Why none at all
Watching Blackbirds
Again, I find myself watching the blackbirds
They come as a cloud that sits upon the ground
Each respecting his wingman’s space
As they pass overhead, they sound like a sudden spring shower
That comes, then goes, finding a place in the field
They move like water running across the way
Pulled by gravity to a lower venue
As they glean the area of worms, bugs and seeds
The rear faction takes to the air
Gliding to the lead for better feeding
This becomes a ritual that is repeated several times
Until the plate is empty, or the craw is filled
They rise in waves that join to make a twisted rope
Smoke from a generous campfire
Rolling, Roiling, tumbling and loping
They politely pass, waving goodbye
With each movement of their wings
And softly I can hear them sing
Writen by owen hamalala
2021 ,18:51
Feding hope
Like the saw blade cutting through
The darkness to shade more light
U crash my soul without a care
Broken but never bothered to care
We care
My heart races like the rat race
Trying to pick up the broken pieces
Down we fall like the fallen angle
Like demons we raise from the ashes
Faithless and hopeless is what we have became
we seek justices in the world of the unjust
Perfection is what we seek but profound
Greed n lying is our perfection
Profound profile
Like a rush on my skin u creep
And craw your way to my heart
Rules and regulations bring economic strangulation
Policies and procedures serve the whims of weak leaders
Statutes and ordinances pave the road to subordinance
Hypotheses and theories render creativity weary
Laws and by-laws stick fast in your craw
Custom and tradition tie the hands of ambition
Axioms and corollaries, originality bury
Torts and contracts recall long-dead artifacts
Plea bargaining, eminent domain, the statute of limitations
Reek of appeasement and Machiavellian machination
Give me a world without all the perverse legalese
A world of brave men, who dare do as they please
Filled With Themselves
By: Tom Wright
2-12-2019
The smugness on Nan's face beamed a look of rebuke,
So I exited the room feeling the need to go puke.
Politics is a profession known for being cutthroat,
And each time one claims victory they smirk and gloat.
No matter what one does, other's rush to find fault,
Those with opposing views they seldom ever exalt.
They excavate past things perceived to be a flaw,
Something done or said has stuck in someone's craw.
Today, even an onion, appears to have thicker skin,
Something from our past, causes today's chagrin.
Political parties can't agree, on even a Leopard's spots,
They're filled with themselves and have to call the shots.
Politicians have become proficient in character assaults,
They destroy each other with innuendo and insults.
"Peter Piper picked a peck of pickled peppers…"
Every time I hear a kid recite this twisted rhyme,
I'm 'minded how 'gainst Mother Nature it's a crime.
What that peck of peppers was no one can tell,
Perhaps banana, jalapeño, cherry, bell.
But whate'er they were, it's plain, at least to me,
That such a peck as that came off no bush nor tree.
For years this simple nursery flaw
Has scraped, and scoured, and rubbed me raw,
And in my very craw the thing's been sticking.
So to bring the problem up to date,
And to try and set the record straight,
I've checked with Vlasik, Clausen, Kraft,
And all agree the notion's daft
That peppers can be pickled prior to picking.
Author's note: Of course, there could have been a typo in the original manuscript, and Peter actually "packed a peck of pickled peppers", or maybe Peter, himself, was partially "pickled" when he picked 'em.
Entered in Tom Woody's Nursery Rhyme Wackiness Poetry Contest on July 16, 2024.
quick figurative brush stroke drawn out character sketch
(serendipitous verisimilitude)
i stand in awe
(with mouth agape) at elegiac, fantastic,
and graphic idyllic Kinkade magic
leaving breathlessness from craw
at such artistic talent oozing
spellbindingly, whatever
aforementioned noteworthy craftsman
doth paint or draw,
and chanced to comment
about sad affairs leaving flaw
in regard to questionable business ethics -
where press hee haw
contradicting, maligning, undermining, and jaw
boning sans said late talented mortal
engaging in sketchy traits of south paw
city when contrasted with a dog given gift -
ooh...such rah...rah...rah
when he first appeared on the scene,
where most viewers saw
utmost dynamic, fantastic, and harmonic convergence
displaying such prosaic, rhapsodic,
titanic art show events
hum...and perhaps not surprising
his illicit in dull gents presents stark contrast,
staring hypnotized as imagination invents
experiencing peaceful, restful
and tumblerful joie de vivre espying
honorable mentioned nonpareil oeuvre
that placidly rents
craving to disappear into bucolic landscape whence,
splashed upon canvass,
attempting to bat
presumed "FAKE" rumors aside as nonsense - fat
chance prevailed constituting:
deceitful, immoral, unfaithful sly kat
nocturnal antics, despite scathing attacks
(cut him down to size), niggardly praises spat
out for me, I maintain cult of personality (his)
setting Mac Book Pro wallpaper
with exemplary landscape, either authentic or copy cat.
The Kings Craw
I’m sure sometime tomorrow, we’ll have our sad goodbye
now make your last attempt, to try and make us cry
once more a broken promise, lays shattered on the floor
another failed attempt, like so many times before
they poke at other poets, then retreat into their hole
why must they pour more vinegar, into our poetry bowl
venting on a blog is against this site’s decree
and now you’ve used a name, for everyone to see
a screen shot has been taken, for admin, I’ll send it in
but when you least expect it, till then I’ll store it in my bin
you need to read the rules, you’re not above the law
your spitting days are over, now let that stick into your craw
I want to run her thoughts
through a carwash, they are not dirty,
just old, the way a classic corvette
needs a rinse occasionally, but never a re-paint
Not that I think of her as a car,
more an abandoned engine
that had been laid too long in a barn.
farm mice had learned to turn her ignition
without the need for any fresh oil.
Dinner together in a Texas Roadhouse.
The nasal song of a country boy
trapped in a ball-breaking melody.
I can’t hear her words,
she can’t hear mine…finally we’re communicating.
An owl in a hollow tree can hear the whole dark forest.
I imagine I am roosting in her throat,
listening, not to her mind or mine,
but Brailing my way around her silence.
The streaks are good, throats become naked
as the food alone speaks to us.
Then here between her vocal folds
a little girl is weeping.
There in the craw-dark, a mother belittles and scolds.
An inner voice far from this moment speaks:
“My ears are too big. I will never be smart enough,
witty enough, thin enough, worthy of love.”
A broken echo intones. It is a recording.
The recounting has no motor, no apparatus,
just etched grooves scored into an ethereal larynx.
The server comes around. “How you’ll doing.”
She and the waitress look to me,
but I am still in the hollow of her throat
a space now witnessing
my own doleful litany of sad songs.