Long Ding Poems
Long Ding Poems. Below are the most popular long Ding by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Ding poems by poem length and keyword.
My seven-month-old daughter, beside herself
with swirling fascination, has unfolded
her tiny arm a bridge for Christmas elves’
safe passage, unconcerned she’s being scolded
by Papa Grinch - who’s clacking away at this.
From my perspective on the less-festive couch,
I cannot see her sparkling eyes witness
magical animation, but I’ll vouch
something’s ‘bout to go down, based on a smile
and ding-a-ling giggles; her angelic face
lit up as though nutcrackers march awhile
icicles melt the seams of man-made space
where a dad’s unaware this innocent time
(just for me) gift wraps Naomi’s holiday crime.
11/30/2018
Punch to the left, punch to the right,
Hold nothing back, in a boxing match,
Show him no pity, hit him real tight,
One in the tummy, punch to dispatch!
crowds cheering, coach’s swearing,
This is the dream, you worked to win!
radio is blaring, bookies screaming,
Don’t ease your grip, smash his grin!!
His head is bleeding, his eye is black,
Quick on your feet, the bell is gone,
Step to the side, give him no slack,
land him a stunner, you are the Don!
Keep chin up, gloves up to your face,
He is circling around, like King Kong!
Go jump in and punch, four with pace,
He is down, his eyes go ding dong!!
heap on the floor, he takes the count,
You dance around, arms up in the air,
You Ignore pain , with glee dismount,
You are Champ! You won your share!!
Written 04/March/2020
Rattling rhyme contest
Sponsor Nina P
What is it called?
When thousands of bats
Come pouring out the mouth of a cave
For the black gold of sunset?
Like that
The late autumn leaves tear from their branches
In a spooky warm gale
Misplaced this Halloween night
Buries the party of cars parked on the street
For the last three days of vigil
Tending to 100-year-old Lillith
Next door
Her bedroom window 30 feet from me
Where I stand in short sleeves
Amazingly
This time of year
I too wait for news
As I watch the tree tops crumble
And the puzzle pieces of starry sky
Connect their arms and fill the gaps
Creamy river Milky Way
Maybe they are holding Lillith’s hands
Asking her questions about the beyond
And knowing Lillith
She’s ignoring them all or mumbling
Oh yes yes
Peering outdoors through her curtains
Listening to my wind chimes
Ding
Like a harbored sailboat’s mast
Lashed by its pulleys and hoists
Nothing left of Lillith’s sail
Of course it would be a wind like this
On a magical night like this
That carries her away in its arms
Over the roofs and pumpkin streets
To the new October stars.
All the ladies of Poetry Soup
Have me wrapped around their fingers
Pulling me along by my big proboscis
As their lady smells doth linger
That scent that drives us male dudes wild
You guys know of what I speak
Not stuff you can buy in a beauty salon
That oh so feminine mystique
It's really damn difficult to turn it off
The reason we act like buffoons
We succumb and act so silly and stuff
Often we even bay at the moon
Like a bunch of silly young teenage dudes
We stammer when trying to speak
Our faces turn red, we bump into things
Sometimes letting out little shrieks
There is a cure, it's called commitment
How dare I suggest such a thing
There's just got to be a much simpler way
Perhaps a one-night ring-a-ding-ding
All the ladies of Poetry Soup
Have me wrapped around their fingers
Pulling me along by my big proboscis
As their lady smells doth linger
(alternately titled: whipping and pommel ling
das soar addle brain)
My most recent deuce score
plus three bajillion ban
an nah ram ma orbitz
squared bob sponge pants
day of birth passed uneventfully –
(round el sol) saw me dan
sing around one average star, which Evan
chilly wool worth hilly exhibit
death throe tulle pan
dum mo' knee yum -
becoming a black hole sun,
when photon illumination
totally tubularly blinks
out more'n Knots Lan
ding all countries
with exception of Japan
(if only for explicit purpose
of this poem) can
did lee stated fan
silly free and foot loose
to appease the ghost of Ivan
the Terrible, who would
phish she shuss lee
never fin hush his
rage against the machine
foaming at the mouth
asper gar non sequitur
spoiler alert hint
aye made debut 13th of Jan)
and now for no rhyme,
nor reason mention
nothing (by the way)
written thus far tan
gent shill to the square
of hide bound
Halliburton Hippopotamus,
whose first name
Horton doth move in clan
destine fashion, oh...and nope
definitely not related
to ancestors of Kublai Khan
whose nickname Lloyd
though, whoa, wow,
and yikes quite a time span
'tween that Mongol
consigning, conning, and condemning
“FAKE” deplorable trump
ping app Paul
ling Peters to Azkaban
nonetheless, aye never aver
witnessed no fanfare
for this common (c'mon) man
lettuce high tail gangnam style to San
Mateo (matt er factly
founded, settled, and
populated by Scottish
donning Harris tweed
a hop, skip and jump by van
from this yan
key dude dull who lives ian
Schwenksville, Pennsylvania.
The only reason for time
is so that everything
doesn’t happen at once
Albert Einstein
TIME IS ELEMENTARY
swatches of bands, smart
time is elementary;
strapped snug, cosseted
on a small-pale wrist.
coffee fumes and coal
chugging on life’s track.
cuckoo bird on half
and every hour —
oh, why’d it have to stop?!
(salvation in Grandma’s coffee cake)
polaroid portions collecting dust;
ink-streaked down
memory’s bust.
ironic how i can’t remember
the ding-dong digital or sundial
in our own home —
clocks have a mind of their own
busy with keeping its children,
well swept, wound
and educated.
6/29/2019
Freely forming metrical mainstays
poetic occasion to phrase
the fairer and gentler sex,
thus the following turns of phrase
to bestow acknowledgement
regarding wonderful wise ways
of collective she who assays
to create safe/secure home/ hearth
as bedrock and fount of ample
maternal duties tiredly sashays
with keeping house receiving praise
the second Sunday each May, her
tired body sprawled on chaise
lounge, perhaps basking in solar rays
communing with Gaia, who whiz
bruiting with sky goddess
defying forecasters prediction, no slate grays
pose dampening effect on huzzahs
regaling torchbearer diploid as amaze
zing newlife, where loving labor pays
more than fine spun gold cherishing
offspring in her nurturing ways.
Paean dutiful daily deference, I dole
ensconced with pineapple getup
surfing the cyber sea, this hyperbowl
lee, yet deserved dignity deifying dames,
who bear brunt whole
ding potent biological reproductive role
de facto duty honorably decreed
tribute paid despite commercialized
money making hyped up rigamarole,
nonetheless yours truly accentuates sole
sans, progenitor of human race
saddled with disproportionate/ unfair toll.
As imperfection fills our lives
perfection, we crave still
I think about just what it means
and how it pains our will
The quest for what does not exist
the drive to make it right
The disappointment that ensues
at how we lose the fight
The chip that flaws my favorite bowl
may bother me and yet
It simply adds to stories past
and one I won’t forget
The ding, the dent, the thread that bares
the soul that loses trust
They still have value in the love
that thrives and so we must
Consider how the chip relates
to life and love and soul
It’s just a piece of what we are
and not what makes us whole
Ding, ding, ding.
My phone is on the table.
I haven’t answered anyone yet.
I haven’t answered anyone all morning.
I remember things.
I spilled cereal that morning.
That’s when the shift started.
I looked around.
Someone is saying things.
Bird seed spilled on the ground.
Which reminds me.
Of being able to fly.
A past life and I.
Ding, ding, ding.
I turn off my phone at night.
But still.
The sound.
A shift.
Lying down and hovering above the sheets.
I turn off the light again.
I turn off the light again.
I turn off my phone again.
I haven’t answered anyone all week.
I could throw my phone in the ocean.
Except I don’t live by the ocean.
Evil laughter ensues.
Crying is something they don’t know about.
But I think they are investigating me.
I could sleep at night.
They don’t care though so why bother?
A shift.
It could have started yesterday.
I used to sleep.
Ding, ding, ding.
I have 36 unread messages.
I counted them all.
the joyous partner the microwave
it has become my chef
alas not quite my mother's hand
but for its swiftness of foot
there is no other
yes i survive on the TV dinner
oh dear Lord i have shown my age
frozen until my vittles need calling
it is a world of the chophouse
from a hashery where most dine
no fuss, just plain celerity needed
those exquisite tastes, hidden within
lucious noodles and sauces
from white to red
and should that become a disaster
there is always ketchup
Siracha, Hot Mustard, Orange, Honey
it is almost endless for Asia
the frozen dinner section sublime
those long rows packaged and waiting
almost a walk in the Lourve of paintings
as you ogle those reflections in frosted doors
i become a child on Christmas morning
Master Chef in TV Dinnerland
the trick is in the additions
a tad of salsa, or perhaps sour cream
of course scads of butter on taters
A1 or H57 sauce on the meatloaf, or Salisbury
in the vegetable department a loverly
chopped, ready-to-go medley
of onion, celery, and carrot
jalapenos, green chilis, olives
come already in cans chopped
simply sprinkle on at last minute
but the greatest joy held in my heart
is when i place the holy offering
i would never eat, retrieved from garbage
into that loverly microwave
always upon a microwave-safe plate
gently affixing an impediment to door
wait for that loverly moment
when that pesky fly enters to dine
slam the door in most haste
hit that 3-minute button
nothing more civilized than well done
then wait for that pure joy
when the whistling, whirling stop
light goes off, and the wonderful
ding, ding, ding of a job well done
let the philosophers and theologians
go on, and on about revenge
but i vote it is best when microwaved
loverly i say
OKC 7/01