Long Eggs Poems
Long Eggs Poems. Below are the most popular long Eggs by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Eggs poems by poem length and keyword.
Dragon's back! It’s Easter Time and, Yes; we’re going to church today...
Right after the Easter Egg Hunt. Ostrich eggs were perfect, for Dragon, I say…
The Trolls worked at painting them, all night. They wanted them perfect., for sure.
Psychedelic colors seemed to reign supreme. Yes… with lots of crazy bling! De Jure!
Grandpa Troll’s carrying the BIG basket that his penguins decorated in ribbons strung!
His penguins got to go on the egg hunt, too It’s their first, but each picked, only one.
They couldn't understand eating eggs so we gave them chicks, that will hatch, so…
It’s off to church we go, cowboy best for the penguins, tending their eggs as they go.
Dragon has his 'Dragon Hood' cape with yellow bib overalls, totally covered in bling!
Beside himself, till we said he could go. Now he's jumping up and down, as he sings!
He's going to church, for he needs all the help he can get, along the way, true.
We're trying to instill, ‘What Would Jesus Do’. Strengthen his character ideas, too.
But HE thinks he's already a STRONG character, and it's given him great success!
Don't think he understood, what strength of character means, so his soul, God Bless!
So what's next, he ask?... Gee! Taking the kitty down from the curtains would be nice.
You SCARED her there! Remember! When you jumped up and down, once or twice!
NO! You can't burn the curtains to get her down! Gee! I think he’s MISSING the point!
She’s going to church to light a candle for you… to help you find… a better viewpoint.
Remember, in life… Make love not War. Make Friends! After all… What would Jesus Do?
Kitty is TOO important! I'll read you a fable 'The Lion and the Mouse', after Church, too.
No! He didn't squish the mouse! Sigh! Think harder… THINK! WHAT WOULD JESUS DO!
Hope it's an up hill battle. More likely he'll fly over this hill, between, just me and you!
He LOVES church and after his last visit, they rebuilt the church, which was… assured!
They built our group our own SPECIAL section… Of that, you can definitely, be sure!
The church thought, for a very long time, but with a sigh, they knew…WWJD?!!!
Then prayed some more as they cried, at the thought, of what Dragon could do…
In the end, they built a fireproof room, for no matter what they though, to be true…
They knew Dragon is Gods little lost lamb and that’s just “What Jesus Would DO!’
Happy Easter to You!
There's an old English song called All Jolly Fellows That Follow The PLow. The tune works fine as is for the chorus and with the verses if the tune for the 3rd and 4th lines is repeated for th 5th and 6th. Well, it works for me but my singing has never been much hindered by tunes.
It was after that big game one long gone September,
the score line was one I’d like not to remember,
in a small Richmond pub not too far from the ground,
we all settled down with our sorrows to drown.
We were well on the way, as were most of the crowd,
when in came a young pedlar a shouting out loud.
Sausages, sold by the yard or the pound!
Get a fresh sausage, the best to be found!
It’ll make your wife happy of that there’s no doubt,
with her very own snag she won’t need to dine out.
Cried the barmaid, “How many do I get to a yard?”
“Madam, four if they’re soft or three if they’re hard”
She felt for the soft ones, she wanted a lot,
but the more that she squeezed em the harder they got.
She found not a sausage was e’en a bit soft
so she told the young pedlar to go get far offed
Sausages, sold by the yard or the pound!
Get a fresh sausage, the best to be found!
It’ll make your wife happy of that there’s no doubt,
with her very own snag she won’t need to dine out.
Said the pedlar, “Why madam no need to be rude.
And in fact what you told me was verging on crude
But you don’t look so bad for a foul mouthed old sow
so step on outside, if you like, with me now.
If you play your cards right I might squeeze your left breast.
If I find I like that I might squeeze all the rest.”
Sausages, sold by the yard or the pound!
Get a fresh sausage, the best to be found!
It’ll make your wife happy of that there’s no doubt,
with her very own snag she won’t need to dine out.
Said the barmaid to pedlar, “You are a right jerk,
I’m a barmaid and never do mission’ry work.
But if you're near to the shops and you buy me some eggs,
I might squeeze that there pimple you’ve got ‘tween your legs.”
Then she said something that made the whole crowd guffaw,
“And will you stop off at home and please check the back door?”
“
Sausages, sold by the yard or the pound!
Get a fresh sausage, the best to be found!
It’ll make your wife happy of that there’s no doubt,
with her very own snag she won’t need to dine out.
For Cyndi MacMillan's pub song contest
1. THE STORM
COPYRIGHT-POETESS-ANJALI DENANDI,MOM
The storm - from where, it comes
Why - comes, it ? Where, it goes ?
When - it came first ?
Forever it goes and comes
Has it any good effect ? Who knows ?
Destroy ! Just destroy ! Just- ! Must !
The nature becomes calm -
All know - it is the before stage of storm !
Oh! Fear ! The nest thinks - on the tree palm !
The storm has no own form ;
Yet - it has very strong action !
Which can break the mother's emotion !
Lives become hopeless by it !
Forever It can stop the heart beat !
Branches never come back as alive !
The buds and baby-birds never come back !
But the storm returns again and again ...!
Bee-eggs never come back -
But after storm - again bees build the hive !
Though trees feel pain -
Yet - branches , buds come back again !
The new branches , buds , baby-birds , eggs -
Take place on the empty places -
The new nests become happy again !
Cont’d
But no kindness of the storm's invisible legs ,
These always break the sweet dreams !
For these bad works - the storm feels the happiness !
To the storm - who blesses ? ! -
Try - in minds - for own love placings !
Oh ! The storm ! What do you mean ? ! -
Now - find and think about blessings !
Yes ! Yes ! Yes ! - - -
Be the well wisher of the nature ! Please !
Not destroys - creations are the lives - keys !
In front good works - down your knees !
Know - follow - who is your creator ? Who is ---
2. AN AIRY AFTERNOON
COPYRIGHT-POETESS- ANJALI DENANDI,MOM
In an airy afternoon-
I float by my little boat, on river-
Smiles, on sky, the silent moon-
I gift it my loving-look, from very far!
Waves touch my feet, which are naked;
These waves are too busy-
These never come back!
Some very little children, they are naked,
They enjoy around my boat, I see and see---
And eat pop-corn from my jute's sack;
Fishes are seen sometimes on open air-
Again hide in deep water;
My white sail- is in joy of freedom!
I reach very far from my little home!
My pets, my dog and my talking parrot,
Freely walk on my happy boat;
I call,"Hey! Children! Come here!
Yes! Please! Stand on my side;"
They do, like my speech!
Then go and on a big horse, they ride!
Which stands on bank, without speech!
this middle aged rue stirring bummer
haint no stranger to cold,
when dark hen stormy wintry days
eggs hit from Arctic portal en fold
ding Atlantic Seaboard
in a blizzard of bitterly, blindingly, and
brutally sub zero temperatures
from an occasional nor'easter
fiercely gripping hold
the majority years, sans this prolific
recalcitrant scrivener lived
in various and sundry abode
housed within Southeastern
Montgomery County, Pennsylvania
with 19*** zip code,
and during my boyhood recall,
how massive ice sheets did erode
the (then) opened expansive farmland,
in preparation for planting time,
where runnels of frigid water flowed
with childish cheeks exposed to glowed
after hours upon
many a green acre got tilled and hoed
despite feeling energized and refreshed
with arms and legs n'er fro zen
aye didst eagerly await with exuberant yen
kickstarting thy body electric
experiencing hearthstone nook
designed and built by Christopher Wren
after heading indoors counting fingers
and toes to make sure, i still got ten
soon hearing the chorus of fauna,
and floral kaleidoscope of color
aground or taking wing
thus, upon thawing out thoughts
drifted toward approaching spring,
the season revitalizing
dormant natural inhabitants,
whose excite (like mine) didst ping
announcing the debut of fecundity
nsync with screeching from the lizard king.
This Spring Equinox (i.e. man date:
12:15 PM Tuesday,
March twentieth two thousand eighteen)
doth rejuvenate
inviolable hibernating animals
and plants, and me equate
to experience sensation,
whereby entire being does inflate
and (despite marital status),
nonetheless envisions another gal asthma mate
no...no...no...please do not think this chap
mean spirited and under rate
the woman (at present taking a siesta,
and i breathe easy),
who oft times doth henpeck, a trait
inherited many a chic hen
(with tantalizing tail feathers)
now (until she awakens)
proscribing yours truly to wait
for my repast most likely ad hoc
moist ideal for any nerdy kid to knock
senseless, the worst facet of self important jock
consisting of pop slop mock
Hungarian Goulash, a melange
of relics from age old meals
transformed into a petrified sawed little rock.
The mind is a womb
Copulate it
Let the semen of reason
Part the legs of its cervix
And you will see
When moth struggles before its born
The power of its dreams for flight
Words are eggs, you know
Virginal eggs,
I saw him hatch them into bricks
Of ideas that he could carve
Like an Edna exhibit
All copulation must spontaneous
A true gentleman has that gift
Not to force his feelings
On his betrothed
He was also scholar, you know
A sort of poet
That prefer metaphors to the conflict
Of chisel and wood
He had such a mastery of the rhetoric
I mean he understood them better than us
For he did not only speak like them
But spoke their strategy better than them
I sometimes wondered how he knew himself
Apart.
Its sort of seemed ironic
That he did have the anger that Fanon composed
Unless wit is a subtle part of it
May be environment is such a part of it
The cool, I mean
We say that about Manchesterians
Roxborough,
If it could produce the soldier-scholar
Could not have produced just a little fire
Even for the cremation of his brother, Roy
Perhaps it was the mix blood ...
Busta said that his mother was Taino
I do not understand is who mixed them though
There is an overt statement of force to be made
A rape scrubbed from the memory
For how could one half of hm
Become so invisible ...
The mission I mean.
I must rule
More than wood, and more
Than water
For my destiny
Is more than what men may leech
So I am not exploited
I am killed for this robbery
And here I am left
A dead man on a throne
Here I am
Shrouded with self government
And staring into the empty eyes
Of children
So why do I love him then
Was it alone because my father
Fashioned my world for me
Gave me this icon
For proximity the barbarians
Who snatched my mother
Washing her white linen one day
From the sweet river
Do not take that thought to the bank
Where my children play
This man deserves his accolade
If only for taking blindness from my mind
If only for letting me know
The chain had never rattled their
And even in their own words
I could look at the world
And ask "why not?"
He gave me a ladder to my education
That was some gift,
Quite the best of all I am given
O it so beautiful to copulate the mind
Or hold hands through the annals
And see this Manley,
This little fountain of great ambition
Flowing at my lips.
A weasel wibble wobbling can be said to have ingested copious amounts of indemonstrable indelible ink today as it soared into doorways, hallways, cloakrooms, and buffet tables. Buffet tables are neither buffaloes or bongos. In fact they are a pleasant sight to behold. Many colours. Many tastes. And the sounds of chatting from the sandwich stack is delightful especially when the mayonnaise is chuckling away at the jokes told by the ham and cheese. Little dainty cup cakes are immature so a quality conversation cannot be held. And the large jug is rather unintelligible and uninteresting as it yawns away the hours before the consumption takes place. The operatic oversized plate of soprano pineapples and chords of cheese with onions today but the mighty weight of the plate of rice and pasta salad bangs away and interrupts the acts really so the sauces must line up and push the nuisance plate to the floor and this they did. The dog was very very pleased and lay down after eating it all for a doze. And over half a dozen eggs kept jumping up and down and throwing their mayonnaise hats off. We font want these hats. We want whipped cream they shouted. The despondent tablecloth groaned. Another booming buffering buffet. And then the cutlery began having races between the foods. Zoom zoom zoom. Wow. The might of the jar of gherkins was being prayed to by the punnet of strawberries. And the profiteroles were preforming Pilates to an amused potatoe salad. The salt and pepper were arguing over who got used the most. And the coleslaw was diving on and off the pizza slices which annoyed the pepperoni who shouted go away in a very high pitched voice. Buffet battling bemusingly being buttering breadsticks. And now the time had arrived. The hungry swans and tulip people were here. They saw the mess. Blamed the dog. Then walked out in disgust. Oh dear. The tablecloth picked itself up and all it's contents too then went out of the back door and soared off in the air. It landed on a busy beach where it fed lots of little sea urchins. Who were grateful. They gave the tablecloth an ice cream to say thanks. Then the tablecloth went into the sea and swam to the island of the nine figs. Great isn't it. Ha ha the waves want wands. Hahaha boats bouncing into the sky. Left angled fueled fuel vision of a visionary variant spelling of mid. Xxxxx contemplation z z z z in a kiosk z
Form:
"All animals are equal. But some animals are more equal than others."
—George Orwell
A dozen of chickens and a number of horses, a cat and a raven, a few cows and other hoofed ones—all of which are perfectly silent. Poor wolfie. He can't even find a voice to growl. "Your Honor, if I may request for a short recess," I whisper, humiliatingly like a dying dragon. But my timid voice is drowned by a sly-looking pig's pouring of whisky into Dis Honor's gilded cup.
"Have you no respect or have you no eyes?" Squealing, he deafeningly squeals. He reminds me of that scaled wyvern whose head now sits in my living room. It roared deafeningly loud but breathed no fire. "His Honor is having his brief period of refreshment at the moment!"
With eyes too dry to cry and throat too hoarse to howl, the defendant meekly weeps. But only I hear it; the jury listens to only the silence, loud as a baby serpent's inaudible hiss, of two semi-digested pigs in his gut.
Who on earth build houses with flimsy hays or sticks nowadays anyway? And was it my client's fault that the third genius Doctor Porkchop got killed when some stray earthquake crushed his oh-so-unshakable fort built brick by bloody brick? Just whose brilliant proposal is it again to have Napoleon presiding the trial of the so-called Big Bad Wolf? If only he was a dragon—a pig-dragon at least— I would fain put the beauty that is my sword into good use right now.
Countless charges of premeditated murder, culpable animalicide, et cetera. Of course, do sentence us all to another life. I turn to look at the audience right behind me: a mare, a goat, a donkey. A soft motherly neigh followed by an intelligent baa, then by an astute silence.
"Please, Your Honor," Ridiculous. This stupid courtesy reminds me of tiptoeing past a mother Couatl guarding her eggs. "Shall we resume—"
Slams of gavel.
"Objection! Objection! Objection!" Dis Honor oinks vehemently, his mouth reeking of poorly brewed whisky—and I thought Tiamat's droppings were bad. The way he repeats the slamming of his gavel with every disgustingly pronounced objection gives me a headache as if it was my head he keeps hammering on. For the first time, being hit by the Basilisk's tail doesn't sound so bad at all. "Here you call me 'Your Honor Napoleon' in full," Oh, believe me, the honor is fully mine.
Inspired By Red Storm
We’re living in a world where we are dying to survive
Daily watching the news where people are killing to stay alive
Minium wages are leaving more people selling drugs
And single mothers are raising less men to love
Because so many sons are growing up without the family’s head
Forcing them to die before their dead
We living in world
Where fathers like me are scared to raise a girl
Knowing that we can’t be with them every second of the way
Making sure they do as we do, not just what we say
This is a society, where you have to die for what you believe
Then have others believe in the same things you died for
A society where we believe what they say, rather than what they do
Not understanding these rap lyrics are brainwashing you
See they sugarcoat lies convincing youth
That every word they speak 100% truth
We need to take back these streets
Replacing rap with spoken word on beats
Instill positive messages in the hearts of the kids
Convincing them they must not do what we did
Somewhere or by somebody the ball was fumbled
Forcing us poets to find a new ways to rumble
I’m dying to survive daily you hear me
But I will spread this spoken word through this poetry
Until my body is covered with dirt and I’m laying in my casket
I’ll just continue to be the poetry bunny carrying raw truth as eggs in my basket
Everyday I pick up my pen and paper and began to write
I realize even after the death of me this war, people will continue to fight
So am I dying to live or am I living to die
I’ll never know but one thing is certain I dying to try
Trying to paint that picture you can’t overlook
Trying to speak the words you can’t just write in a book
I'm trying to reach every one, who they said was lost in the first place
Dying to survive to take back my birthplace
As Black Ice said, "we were so wrongfully mounted on" years before my time
Trying to be that eye watching dog, dying to lead the blind
I see our people have been ready for change
So much they are killing for change
Forcing the innocent to die for their change
Now how many are willing to carry this cross with me, to force people to change
Or will our generations to come still be dying to survive
Surviving barely enough, just to say they’re not dead, and they’re still alive
Yes like Redstorm says we are dying 2 survive!
Bob, the cat, lives in the room number 13 of the sixth avenue.
He likes fish, rollercoaster, ice cream cones and Sunday papers.
He's an artist. He's a painter. When people ask him about his latest work, he answers:
"I'm painting the meaning of life. I'm coloring it black, but my inner self keeps telling me it's green."
He has gothic way of seeing materials and articles.
He wishes everyone to speak in fragments of literary lyrics, and then he would spend all his days tangling these fragments making an abstract form out of a puzzle.
He goes for a walk before breakfast; walking on two legs, wearing a leather jacket, and whistling after big ass women are his forte.
He passes Mr. Pumpkin floral shop, turns into the eighth avenue, and enters his favorite café called "Your Favorite Café".
He sits on the second chair at the second table, and orders a coffee:
"Black, dark and bitter like a cat's soul", he says to the waiter.
He sits there all morning, sipping his black coffee, dreaming about how it would be if his past, present and future selves exist together, thinking in sync, and communicating through a common medium of artistic sense, saying words in the silence notes of Van Gogh.
He dances all the way home. If anyone cares to ask, he says:
"I'm drunk in Coffea Arabica, a perfect weed to make you tantalize with Arabian dreams and gives your nerves a breakdown."
Dancing along the pavements, he counts the roses in beats.
One, two, three, four… two, two, three, four… three, two, three, four, and so on.
The number of roses is directly proportional to the number of steps he's gonna salsa in the bathroom.
He sits on the toilet bowl, and deciphers the problems with human rights.
He stands on one leg on the bathroom floor, with arms spread like hugging the air, mouth wide opens.
He squeaks like a mouse and tries to hop like a rabbit.
He falls hard, crashing the cold bathroom tiles.
He bleeds red like the color red.
He says "Perfect".
He runs into the bedroom. There stands his actual latest work, the heart of a vampire, portraying himself with a deadly cat fangs and a wicked mustache.
He splashes his blood all over the painting, and shouts "eureka".
He starts to hum Yankee Doodle through his nose.
He falls asleep, and dreams about dinner.
"Scramble eggs with tomatoes".
Here comes my father;
“Sheikh Al-Arab.”
My mother made him, also, tea with milk and “gargoosh.”
Now, time to fill “al-azyar” (water clay-containers);
They are under the two huge trees in front of our house.
Their waters are “sabeel,” for everyone passing by;
Might be going to, or coming from, Moslab’s boat.
Might be going to, or coming from, Dirar’s shop.
“Sheikh Al-Arab” fills “al-azyar” from the “toromba” (water-pump).
His children are glad to help;
Excited by the “toromba”:
Its handle makes a musical sound as it goes up and down.
Its water is clear.
And it beats brining water from the Nile.
---------
Here goes Abdul-Hameed;
Leaving to his farm.
Riding his old weak gray donkey;
Holding his lunch bag.
Probably bread and dates;
Probably hard-boiled eggs;
Probably leftover from last night dinner.
He already had breakfast;
His wife made him, also, tea with milk and “gargoosh.”
The donkey’s lunch will be grass from the field
The donkey’s lunch will be fresh.
---------
Here comes Nafeesa;
Leaving the “zareeba” (animals’ shelter).
Today, her goats were generous;
Lots of milk.
Her husband and children are waiting;
Time for tea with milk and “gargoosh.”
Her dog accompanied her to the “zareeba”;
And back from the “zareeba.”
But, no tea, no milk, and no “gargoosh”;
Probably an old bone.
Only when Nafeesa’s husband slaughters a lamb;
“Kibda” (kidney) for breakfast.
And lots of meat for everyone.
And for the dog.
And for other village’s dogs.
---------
Here comes Widad and her four children;
Carrying one, and three behind her.
They are going to “jiddo” (grandfather);
They will all have tea and milk and “gargoosh.”
“Jiddo” is waiting and it is getting late;
Widad will feed them all
They walk hurriedly in the dirt street;
Dust arises behind them.
Two children walk barefoot;
The lucky third has old slippers.
Two children wear few clothes;
The lucky third looks better.
“Jiddo” is waiting; more speed; more dust.
---------
Here comes Khadeeja;
The little thin girl, carrying a plate.
She is going to Zahra’s house;
Zahra makes “zalabiya” (fried dough balls).
There will be Zainab, Alawiya, and Fatima;
All sitting on the ground, around the “saj” (big wood-fire fry-pan).
All almost sleep;
All patiently waiting;
Zahra’s “zalabiya” is cooking.
---------
(to be continued) .....