Long Flinging Poems
Long Flinging Poems. Below are the most popular long Flinging by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Flinging poems by poem length and keyword.
I was just thinking of you...
cussing.
Fussing in an effortless ease
of which I often envied.
I
miss that.
I see you there, still
on your front porch, yelling at
Meatloaf to stop digging holes
in your yard!
"Stop that, Dammit!" you'd half-hazzardly yell, as you took off one
of you house shoes and flung it at her.
I heard that she died
a year after you.
Joe found her under the house
just beneath the spot where you sat
so many days,
pondering other people's problems while
chain-smoking Newports
and drinking Milwaukee's Best Ice---
Often,
on sunny days
when the air is visciously visible---
when the blackbirds break flight
and the bluebells beckon for moisture,
I can still see you there,
flinging your house shoe at Meatloaf...
she, skillfully ducking
and then grabbing it up in between her jaws and returning it into your
waiting hands.
Two teddy bears, named
Ted and Fred,
Packed a picnic basket with buns,
And home-made bread,
Keep to the path their mummy said,
So off they went, along the way,
Happy teddy bears were Ted and Fred,
We’re going to the woods’ hurray,
What a lovely, happy first of May,
Was this exciting warm Spring Day.
They swung their basket as they skipped,
They sung and saw fresh berries’
Which they picked,
Poor little Fred his finger pricked,
It’s just a scratch,
Big brother said,
But we must be careful, said Ted,
It’s going to rain, must find
A safe, dry place,
Fred began to cry, tears streaked
Down his face.
The clouds were building up in the sky,
Lightning and thunder way up high,
Each one pulled up their hood.
Brrr………… its getting cold,
Don’t walk so fast Ted, said little Fred,
I’m scared, are we so very lost,
No, Ted replied, but we must find
The path back home at any cost.
Big brother looked helplessly around,
Felt hopeless, for young brother Fred
Who wanted mummy, what if they could not
Find their way back home, what a dread,
That would break their parent's heart,
Shhh ……. Fred, said Ted, lets' find
the path, where did we start'.
Mama and papa bears began to worry,
They put their raincoats on,
And went into the woods, where are my
Baby bears mama cried,
Freddy and Ted.
Papa bear bravely took the lead,
Mama don’t fret said he,
We will find them soon you’ll see.
Both plump and slow,
Papa started to sing, I know,
Singing calms you down, join me.
The little bears heard their parents singing,
Excited, they began flinging
Up their scarves and hats, screaming,
We are over here, we are over here,
They ran into each other’s arms, so glad,
All were so happy, this picnic,
Could have ended sad,
For eventually no picnic was even had.
They all joined hands and sung,
As their voices merrily rung
Through-out the woods.
They got back home papa, Fred and Ted
Watched TV,
Whilst mama bear prepared supper happily,
She read them nursery rhymes in bed,
They fell asleep, she tucked them in,
Sleep well my babies, mama said.
Words are flinging and flailing, ferociously flipping and flying.
I watch it happen, helpless to get any control; for they are frenzied.
My muse rolls her finger around her ear, indicating their craziness.
Isn’t part of this ….us? I ask her? Trixie has answers for everything.
She puts her finger into wet paint on a brush and flips dots on a page.
They begin to prance around, making perfect poetic prose.
How do you do that? I ask her, amazed. She is a wonder.
The words start rearranging themselves, until they are even better.
Numbers try to find a place but they are annihilated with a look.
Trixie and I both despise math.
Sleepy dawn unfurls
A wet morning steers;
Walkway ripples swirl
With busy feet here.
Sunday looks tired
From overnight rain;
Heavy eyelids mired
With cold draft refrain.
Stumbling out of bed
Jerky knees feel stiff;
Bones ache flinging dread
In dreary cold tiff.
The sun comes out late
With a fumbling light;
Feels hard to debate
This stark August sight.
Awakening feels
Like a waste of sleep;
Steady warmth can heal
The piercing cold deep.
I hear sound snoring
In regular beats;
Cold taxing morning
Steals much body heat.
Awareness sleeps well
As heavy feet slide;
Blurry thoughts in-dwell
Stiff cold air presides.
Leon Enriquez
03 August 2014
Singapore
Malicious, plotting squirrel,
sends its angry rain.
Oh, the liberties it takes,
with my precious fruit trees.
A pear slams into my head;
my temple, burning blue.
Rising lump of blue,
from vicious squirrel;
swelling on my head
from his violent pear-rain.
Standing beneath the pear tree,
I do a double-take.
Squirrel always takes;
gives nothing; leaving me so blue.
Into the top of my pear tree,
moved the squirrel;
flinging his pear-rain,
hard upon my head.
The growing lump, smarts on my head.
Whatever it takes,
I’ll end this horror rain;
I’ll make squirrel
so very, very blue.
I will dine on pears from my own trees!
They are my trees!
Stop hitting my head.
How dare you, squirrel!
You must not take
all and beat me black and blue,
with your violent pear-rain.
Your angry, rabid rain,
Of pears from my tree,
built a gigantic lump of blue,
upon my tender head.
I’ll do whatever it takes
to evict you, Mr. squirrel!
No more, pelting pear rain; beneath sky of blue.
You’ll leave my trees, whatever it takes!
No more glaring lumps, upon my head;
your notice, has been served, Mr. Squirrel.
Excited to be given freedom to play,
I run to my art studio and begin dabbling.
I have already created thirteen new
canvases – penned and ready to fill in with paint.
My dogs are pawing at the glass slider, wanting entrance.
I allow them to come in, but warn them they will have
to sit. Buddy, my large puppy gets under my arm,
flinging it into the air. I let him back out.
Sophie Helen, my cocker is twelve years older.
She lies down, because she wants to stay.
Buddy knocks on the slider and I let him back in.
The dogs lie rear end to rear end, not facing each other.
I telephone some friends, listen to them on speaker
while I paint. My heart is singing. Painting is my meditation.
It is a terrific time to listen and encourage others
while I play, and it makes my dogs happy.
I love your heathered highlands,
steep cliffs and rugged islands,
hedges and gardens under
rainclouds of grey.
Old steeples rise above
those small rural towns I love;
your hillsides of sunny yellow,
rolled bales of hay.
Pipers will play their part
stirring each Scottish heart
binding together a nation
drenched with pride.
"Scotland the Brave" is ringing,
dancers are highland flinging -
proud Scottish hearts are singing,
joy wells inside.
O, highland games of yore
with racers and tug-of-war,
the cabers are tossed asunder
by mighty men.
I love your farmlands rustic,
mountains and lochs majestic,
as kilts of many tartans
hike through the glen.
Pipers will play their part
stirring each Scottish heart
binding together a nation
drenched with pride.
"Scotland the Brave" is ringing,
dancers are highland flinging -
proud Scottish hearts are singing,
joy wells inside.
Castles with ancient hist'ry,
Celt runes of ancient myst'ry,
we sing an "Auld Lang Syne"
and toast Robbie Burns.
Clans clad in plaid will whistle
fondly of Lion and Thistle,
dressing with tartan kilts
their wee bonnie bairns.
Hands high, your dancers dance -
crossed swords, I'm in a trance,
pipes heard for miles
with that old familiar blare.
St. Andrews' cross - the flag is
don't ask what's in the haggis!
Just eat your shortbread
and be glad you were there.
//These reflect some of my favorite memories from the 6 months I lived in Scotland, in 1990. I miss her dearly and hope I may be able to return some day. These words may be sung to "Scotland the Brave", a beloved anthem of Scottish national pride. You can hear it here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KzK2PWVQYX0
The tempo of this recording is much faster than I prefer, but I include it here in case you have never had a chance to hear this wonderful patriotic song. //
Written 24 Mar 2021
The ancient mariner surviving within me
set sail with dreams on the alluring sea,
in search of your yearning secluded shore,
I longed for, but was never there before.
As descending dusk spread a dark shroud,
in the falling sky swelled up indigo cloud.
From the horizon surged the tempest free,
flinging me in the wreckage of fatal debris.
With consumed courage I tried to be afloat
on the biting brine permeating me such a lot.
My hope to reach you I felt in the sea gone,
as I drifted dazed to an alien shore at dawn.
My broken heart bled at the deepest of sore,
open wound of despair was flooded in the core
by the torrent of tear my eyes got from the sea,
and from the clutch of sharp pain I couldn’t flee.
February 25, 2021
Contest : Salt
Sponsor : Anthony Biaanco
Early in the morning, he woke up
Up flinging his wings to God’s House
God’s House perhaps with some reason
Some reason for mingling
Mingling with some congregants
Congregants singing to praise their God
God did not create butterflies to sing
To sing like human beings
Human beings go to church to socialize
Socialize because they are not butterflies
But butterflies follow the wind all over
All over up until at a church
At church, they see no flowers to suck
No pollen to lick and cannot sing
Cannot sing a song they do not know
Not know but can expose their beautiful bodies
Bodies uncovered with colorful wings
Wings they fling intentionally
Intentionally for exciting humans at church
At church, they are still butterflies
Butterflies who come to irritate God in his House.
Poem by Mugisho N.
Bold, bright...unmistakable
she dresses in vivid pinks or purples
sometimes splashes of oranges or golds.
Her lavish flashes of flowers shine
and yet...
…brilliant bougainvillea has
her dark secrets.
Devoid of fragrance
this fanfare, flowery mistress
hides her hidden thorns...
…to touch her is
to become entangled
cut to the quick
scraped and bloodied
without warning
though careful one may be.
Beauty prevails over pain
as paper petals flirt and entice
all dressed up in pageantry
a multitude of sins are covered.
Bougainvillea lights up
the heated climate
flinging caution to the wind.
Written on 4/10/2019