Long Flamingos Poems
Long Flamingos Poems. Below are the most popular long Flamingos by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Flamingos poems by poem length and keyword.
Seasons.. they come and go,
Ah, fleeting flocks of flamingos.
Hope.. evanesces into nothingness,
Like camphor in a white, silent bowl.
Passion.. my broken wings of brass,
Duelling against the might of fate.
Illusions.. desert mirages,
Bidding us farewell before sunset.
Faith.. like running water,
Slips through our teasing fingers.
Solitude.. the chatter of a silent mind,
Dipping thoughts in a thick white fog.
Old age.. the remembrance,
Of all that lingers within..
As a king, as a slave,
As a hater, as a lover,
As the brave, as the coward..
I prosper and perish,
Yet remain the same,
Still, I search for my identity.
Pink Flamingos
The only bird of the family Phoenicopteriformes
Is the “flame-coloured” flamingo, so named by the Spanish.
A wader on long legs with an arcuate filtering bill;
An eater of shrimp and algae that pigment feathers pink.
Posed confidently, balanced on one leg to conserve energy,
They display beauty and grace under an aura of innocence
In a relaxed atmosphere, appearing flirtatious,
Congregating in pats, and exhibiting social behaviours.
In spring, the birds participate in mating rituals
Of synchronized dance steps, marching in unison
With necks stretched, heads flagging, and wings flapping
To encourage nesting and pair bonding.
***
Notes:
Phoenicopterus: "Phoenicopterus" is the Latin name for flamingo. Flamingo comes from the Portuguese or Spanish meaning “flame-coloured.”
Pat (aka Flamboyance): A "pat (aka flamboyance)" is a group of flamingos.
“Do not fear death so much but rather the inadequate life.” Bertolt Brecht
They gathered around the table to a game of bingo
at tables decorated with pink flamingos
Blank stares and forced smiles on some faces
Some lost in their own thoughts from other places
A shout out of” Bingo” brings them back for a moment
Eagerly awaiting that coin prize as a bestowment
Soon it’s time to go back to their lonely rooms
As they are slowly wheeled back amongst the putrid fumes
Their halls are haunted daily by cries of pain and despair
As most would not have chosen to be there
Their happiness lost in memories of a past life
When they lived with family, or had a husband or wife
As night falls they're settled in their hospital beds
Praying for sleep as they are taking their nighttime meds
Some stay awake as they hope for that silent kiss
The kiss of death would be welcomed by many with bliss
I called to the monkey who wore a pinstriped suit,
Found out the giraffe and hippo are mute.
Saw a man stare at a lemur 'til dark,
Like he was waiting for some kind of spark.
The leaves fell from trees, an impressive display,
So I waved my arms like I made it that way.
A woman made comment to me, "Don’t be silly,"
As a flamingo tapped by, all dressed up and frilly.
Sun-bear, lions, and kangaroo too,
A gorilla looked like he had nothing to do.
Sunning themselves, no care in the world,
While a shoebill gave my head quite the whirl.
A man with some popcorn meant for a snack,
Tossed some to pigeons—who launched an attack!
He zigzagged away, arms flailing in dread,
Yelling, “They pooped on my head!” as he fled.
A grandma danced by the penguin parade,
Imitating the shuffle those little ones made.
They watched for a moment, then gave her a glance,
And waddled behind her to join in the dance.
I stretched with a yawn, gave one last glance,
At flamingos mid-strut and a penguin dance.
With a heart full of wonder and shoes full of dirt,
I left the zoo grinning, my cheeks kinda hurt
B is for Buzzard under my hat,
my brain meaty and raw.
His talons cling like puppet strings.
His rabid teeth chew and gnaw.
Ye old Buzzard, nothing warm,
just a cold sentinel of death.
Not like the life-giving stork —
impervious to the stench of your breath.
Your buzzard form like a swarm of flies.
The maggots mirror your childhood.
The terror of your bulky brig —
weeping under my wing - your no good.
The psychiatrist dissects my thoughts.
One by one he pulls the seething strings,
whilst the buzzard glares at the Rorschach.
Irritated by the smell of ink and pendulum swing,
the suicidal creature flees to the window, succumbs.
The gift of happiness and flamingos, pink,
from my mailbox to the farthest edge.
Quite merry, maybe a bit wild, I sip a drink
of cherry cordial and admire the pink rabbits*
spiraling out of control but perfectly neat,
in row after row of planted fluorescence.
F is for Flamingo - now my crazy world’s complete.
1/9/2019
Contest: Buzzards and Flamingos
Sponsor: Anthony Slausin
Not a true story
*as rabbits multiply
I need a woman who doesn't mind being alone.
She's not into quail eggs but doesn't mind eating crow.
Does her own thing and is not one bit clingy.
A little bit tart but never saccharine sweet.
Slightly off the drumbeat is just fine with me.
A velvety pianist is what I don't need.
Call me a pig, but I don't like them fat.
For fat could mean an unabashed gasser.
Or a big yawner in the sack.
I need a lean black leather panther.
Or a rhinestone-studded wildcat-
She has to be witty, but I run far away from too silly.
She must live for poetry, more than she lives for me.
Likes rolling in stones and riding led zeppelins.
Slow dancing on the dark side of the moon.
She'll ride pink flamingos, just shy of the loon.
She'll fall in love with Van Gogh's fields of crows,
Salvador's melting clocks and twisting, spiral stairs.
She'll scavenge blue sea glass and musical snow globes.
Gently knead my jagged darkness into double rainbows.
Most importantly, she must make a vow to outlive me,
because at funerals I become a cracked, unwinding timepiece.
Expertly I sit down,
the recliner jumps to my command.
The friends of George Washington are here
they come bearing paw paw and cloud berries.
I am a native morning in Appalachia,
there, where all is fair,
peace tailspins out
as two plastic flamingos mate
in a squeaky rubber pool.
I tune in to watch another mind.
King Kong is bouncing up and down
using my brain for a trampoline.
Yesterday's wine bottle is empty again
I pour myself out;
sip those sweet red puddles of existence.
The founding fathers are protesting
the inflationary cost of saltpeter,
the flying fusty powder of their wigs
makes King Kong sneeze.
George Washington is taking
a well-earned nap.
The recliner rears up
ready to get going somewhere -
anywhere will do.
Quickly alice follow the rabbit
Two days late is becoming a habit
Fancy a cuppa? sit at the table
Meet the hatter baffling and able
To confuse the greatest of folk
Is he insane? or is it a joke?
Where is the mouse? did he drop?
Hope he hasn't pee'd in the pot
Why is a raven like a writing desk?
She couldn't begin to guess
"We're all mad here" said the rabbit
Holly molly a talking rabbit, "grab it"
She screamed with disbelief
What on earth is in this tea
Did the caterpillar share his puff?
Thinking of it, what is that stuff?
What did she drink in that room?
Was it juice from mushrooms?
A floating big mouth cat
It's gone, did she really see that?
Pink flamingos & dancing cards
Those chess pieces look scary hard
Who's s screaming off with her head?
They're all off their crazy heads
Where's that man who's crackers?
The one they call mad hatter
Can he help her get home?
From the wonderland she roams?
"Open ur eyes!" someone scream
Oh lord it was a crazy dream
Pink Is Having a Moment
with
the new pink cricket ball,
pink soccer boots,
Yes, it's True Folks! It's a fair game!
But,
no World Cup team
is clad in pink—
they think it's too tame,
or maybe too bold,
a distraction
which amounts to the same.
Pink in fashion
is always arriving fresh,
and returning.
In nature, though,
it's as old as a daybreak
and twice as enduring.
Pink panthers,
pink flamingos,
pink slips, pink gin,
pink carnations in a lapel,
powdered pink wigs on
pink elephants after midnight,
drifting through Versailles
in clouds of rose-red perfume mist;
gate-crashing catwalks,
then riding away
in the Shock of the New—
A Shiny Pink Cadillac.
But don't expect
the pink moment,
to last very long.
It'll be left
as a glinting hint
subdued in the background.
Blushing in sunsets,
hiding in seashells,
lounging lazily
inside ripe watermelons,
lingering in galloping galahs,
coral reef fish fins flaps,
and the inner demure curves
of a conch shell.
It will fade from fashion
around the end of July.
Pink's moment will pass.
Yet, somewhere, out there—
A rose will ignore them,
a flamingo will stand on one leg,
and the evening sky
will blush
without permission!
and
the world will discover
Pink isss It!
all over again.
It was the most empty basement I’ve ever felt.
Creaking, support beams, and spider webs.
Nothing nice like flamingos or lip gloss.
A chair for so long.
Then not even a molecule.
There’s nothing in a shoe box except shoe prints.
Things that don’t move.
Or even try to jump out of the way.
It was the most empty basement feeling ever.
I stopped getting tangled in spider webs.
It stopped, it did.
It was the most…
Like a collection of walls and the support beams that mean well.
Empty.
I got caught up in the relaxing dust, and must.
It was the most empty basement sound I’ve heard.
Strumming along with a bass hum.
I have an empty basement inside.
Got fumigated one too many.