Long Egg Poems
Long Egg Poems. Below are the most popular long Egg by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Egg poems by poem length and keyword.
~Walk With Me Always ~
( Egg Timer )
Come with me Darling
And hold my hand
always walk
With me
Love
Love
With me
Always walk
And hold my hand
Come with me Darling
And hold me so tight
Give me a kiss
Two three four
I want
More
More
I want
Two three four
Give me a kiss
And hold me so tight
Come with me my love
We'll dance love kiss
Neath the moon
All night
Long
Long
All night
Neath the moon
We'll dance love kiss
Come with me my love
Dorian Petersen Potter
aka ladydp2000
copyright@2017
April.21.2017
“Kindness is a language which the deaf can hear and the blind can see.”
- Mark Twain
~ Author's Notes:
The "Egg Timer" is a poetry form or style created by Erich J. Goller.
Why are your wing's so ruffled black
It begs the question what on earth is the
air up there contaminated with
Is that maybe the reason why it's 2
shades of gray on a English summer's
day in the old U.K
And why migrating fleeing folks of
bird's celebrate coz lost and have to
hastily turn obtuse 90 degrees right
mid-flight
Gliding upon a deathly gale whilst heading
towards France
So dance concisely oh humping bird tarred
darker than a raven doing metronome 2
step waltzes
Shakespeare is currently on his way with his trusty quill in hand penning you a soliloquy as
we very speak
For you to carry the word and message on
to wherever and whomever
They may be if any of them be able
and left to fight another day
Who haven't already buried their head in desert
sand like all the other Ostrich egg's
The press was driving Humpty Dumpty mad,
thinking about the bad fake news.
He'd debated whether to venture into the press room
and finally decided, to walk through the enchanted garden.
Looking upwards taking his steps for granted,
he fell, whirling, falling, falling down a rabbit hole.
With his magic ability to shift,
Humpty Dumpty hid in the shadows veiling himself.
His lodestone attraction to snooping got him caught on a spider's web.
A troop of fire ants came marching in with pikes in hands.
He twisted, wiggled, and squirmed.
What a mess he'd gotten himself into.
A woman pushed her way through the throng of fire ants
trying to get to the victim stuck in the web.
Humpty Dumpty found her exquisite,
having long waves of dark ebony hair
that fell around her shoulders and down her back.
She was clad in all black from her high heels
to her sheer blouse that molded her breast.
Humpty Dumpty knew he was doomed,
even his magic couldn't get him out of this.
The queen gave the order to her children to aim and throw
their pikes.
Poor Humpty Dumpty was dinner!
6/29/2018
Poetry Contest: The mystery of Humpty Dumpty
Sponsored By: Faraz Ajmal
~Come With Me My Love~
( Egg Timer )
Come with me my love
We'll dance away
Neath the moon
All night
Long
Long
All night
Neath the moon
We'll dance away
Come with me my love
And hold me so tight
Give me a kiss
Two three four
I want
More
More
I want
Two three four
Give me a kiss
And hold me so tight
Come with me Darling
And hold my hand
always walk
With me
Love
Love
With me
Always walk
And hold my hand
Come with me Darling.
Dorian Petersen Potter
aka ladydp2000
copyright@2016
May.31.2017
“Kindness is a language which the deaf can hear and the blind can see.”
- Mark Twain
~ Author's Notes:
The "Egg Timer" is a poetry form or style created by Erich J. Goller.
Byte size food begets best bedeviled egg head benefits
re: visited today April 12th, 2023
Way before aye knew
the name Fletcherism applied
family and friends even
Smetana's bartered bride
would (tongue in cheek) chide
tummy uncommonly
(recherché) atypical dyed
ded if the letter “y” one did elide
in the wool feeding
and/or slaking thirst guide
did precepts sans hungry
deaf eating beast impossible to hide
(the ferocious growling harassing imp -
armed to the figurative teeth ready to pounce
viz casus belli sans reeling off
a pseudo say id dish us vicious jeremiad
me, this unrepentant conscientious masticator,
who re: lied
on self control unbeknownst
to this pumpkin eater
(me not named Peter)
unwittingly followed
the basic tenet of Fletcherism - custom made
modus operandi vis a vis exercising okayed
mandibular metered (when famished),
eyes kept closed while tongue gently played
adhered to practice of eating small amounts,
which discipline stayed
engorging self, and as a result
(consuming sustenance
only when hungry avoiding
(wolfing like an instantaneous blitzkrieg flash)
found me aware visa vis master car ding
marginal increase in pounds meaning
thy body electric weighed
approximately for long stretches
to enable safe passage for sturdy brigs
when a habitue at one or another dining digs
stuffed nibbling on hors d'oeuvre figs
adequately satiating with with oomf
when contra dance caller Scott Higgs
announced "hands four," which signal
helped get my mojo back
and reel lee deuce home jigs,
which indeed kickstarted and syncopated,
oft times espying Bobby Riggs
who years gone back whiz Vic Tory huss
e'en when donning apparel of Whigs
like colluding trumpetting molecules
that via tiff Fanny doth zags and zigs.
THE EGG
In the quiet cradle of the morning sun,
A humble egg, by dawn's grace, began.
Pablo's brush, in colors bold and bright,
Dances with words, a poet's gentle light.
Ode to the egg, a canvas pristine,
A vessel of life, a mystery unseen.
In Picasso's hands, angles and curves,
A symphony of shapes, a creation that serves.
A fragile orb, in the artist's gaze,
A metaphor for life, in myriad ways.
Shell, a fortress, guarded and strong,
Yet within, a universe waiting to belong.
Ethereal strokes, a poet's inked refrain,
Capturing the essence, the joy and pain.
Noble laureate's words, a lyrical dance,
An ode to the egg, a timeless romance.
Picasso's vision, a fractured delight,
Breaking barriers, revealing the light.
Nobel laureate's verses, a delicate weave,
Celebrating life that the egg does conceive.
In the quiet cradle of the morning's birth,
A collaboration, a masterpiece of worth.
Egg, a symbol, profound and pure,
In the hands of genius, an everlasting allure.
:: 11.11.2023 ::
NOTE:
In the quiet cradle of the morning sun,
A humble egg, by dawn's grace begun.
Pablo's brush, in colors bold and bright,
Dances with words, a poet's gentle light.
Ode to the egg, a canvas pristine,
A vessel of life, a mystery unseen.
In Picasso's hands, angles and curves,
A symphony of shapes, a creation that serves.
A fragile orb, in the artist's gaze,
A metaphor for life, in myriad ways.
Shell, a fortress, guarded and strong,
Yet within, a universe waiting to belong.
Ethereal strokes, a poet's inked refrain,
Capturing the essence, the joy and pain.
Noble laureate's words, a lyrical dance,
An ode to the egg, a timeless romance.
Picasso's vision, a fractured delight,
Breaking barriers, revealing the light.
Nobel laureate's verses, a delicate weave,
Celebrating life that the egg does conceive.
In the quiet cradle of the morning's birth,
A collaboration, a masterpiece of worth.
Egg, a symbol, profound and pure,
In the hands of genius, an everlasting allure.
The day finally came, the day she’d been dreading,
The phone call that spoke to her soul,
And the voice on the end, made her heart miss a beat,
The words made her lose all control,
It explained the big news, no trouble or issue,
But now she had to fathom goodbye,
She had to let what she had, go to a new home,
Then she hung up and sat down to cry.
You see, her egg had grown up, her child had been born,
Had grown inside a new mum,
And now this baby, lay in this new mothers arms,
As he slowly began sucking his thumb,
So she gathered her heart, faced the front door,
Wiped the tears from where she had cried,
Knowing she’d created a new happy family,
With the egg that she had supplied.
Hey I'll travel into that computer the one that sees everything..' I will get to know even
more about what's going on in this place..! Ohhh..' there's lots of pulses in here, I think
I shall travel down that hook up there right to where it ends, and see what I find..' OH..I
I can see lots, lots of people on a green bank a big river.. And a quiet reflective feeling all
round, hey they are holding eggs lots of them..' and that youngish man there what's he
saying? hey that's better the volume just went up. It seems...as if.. Yes I am in a camera
lens..' Oh he's speaking again..' So a man of the Pharisees: Nicodemus..' came to Jesus
by night, Rabbi he said we know you were sent by God because no Man could do the signs
you do unless God were with him..' I tell you truly Jesus replied no one can see the kingdom
of God unless he is 'born again' how do you mean teacher Nicodemus questioned.? how can a person be born again?
In this world? Surely one cannot re-enter into their Mother to be born and by now being old..'
Jesus then answered again saying unless a person is born of water and the spirit he cannot
enter the Kingdom of God..! the young man seemed most ernest in his manner, the people
listened intently..' he put down a book? Bible Dumpty could read as he peered closer that he had been quoting from; and held up a large egg..' and said today we celebrate Easter this egg symbolises
the 'new life' you can have in Christ..' This is the time he laid down his earthly life in order
that we can live eternally in heaven with Him..! Dumpty felt full of emotion at these words.'
the symbolism of the egg especially moved him, he thought of 'being born again' of being
'Humpty Dumpty' once more..' as he watched a lot of the people went forward to the man..Saying we will accept him Joe.' So they must know this man Dumpty reasoned' This seemed to really please Joe!
and so they accepted this 'Jesus' still others went into the water and another man plunged them
deep under..' then he raised them up to cheers from all, Dumpty saw all this with
mixed up feelings..'
He thought he had best go back to the Owl; and enquire more about
these things..'
Golden is yourself, so Harry is golden,
And there is no reason not to eat eggs,
So the twelve eggs are also lain golden,
On each level to signify there’s no begs.
The ladders are pink to remind us that,
Women can aspire by climbing to the top,
By using their brains and character to pat,
And patronise the male ego, hopefully pop.
The ducks are indeed ducklings, children,
And are blue suggesting they are boys,
For the men who deride and hurt us when,
They think that they can treat us as toys.
The caged bird is yellow, just like the cage,
Because the bird has the right to escape,
And yellow, or golden, is the locked cage,
Since it has a key to unlock the tying tape.
The green ground ramifies earth’s nature,
Flowing with grace and beauty for freedom,
Making it obvious that you can walk anywhere,
Any posture, any reason, into any kingdom.
The hen feed is piled up and pink, we wink,
Like the ladders for socially upwardly mobile,
Which to me states that it is good to drink,
And of course eat, therein you can be capable.
The egg; a standing ovation in a shell
A fluid protected in its thin infinity
The unborn child of a chicken
A fragile innocence in gooey liquid
Never to grow up and out of it
That does not travel well
When dropped from great heights
Say a tall building, an airplane in flight
Or from the top of the Grand Canyon
A yoke offers small protection from a fall
Yodeling won't help it either
It does not matter to the egg
Though it has no wings just yet
And it never will
The egg has no memory to forget
It has no fear of anything not oval
A perfect egg is boiled for three minutes
Cracked open gently with a silver spoon
Saddled with a side of toast and bacon hot
Some butter, with salt and pepper sprinkled
The egg makes a nice treat in yellow and white
A marvelous guest dressed up in Hollandaise
Easy to serve and easy to digest
Always on the menu of memory at breakfast