Long Gibbon Poems
Long Gibbon Poems. Below are the most popular long Gibbon by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Gibbon poems by poem length and keyword.
My Dearest Bertha baboon
I’ve recently joined your baboon troop
and Bertha you’re the star of the group
I’ve watched you swinging in the trees
Your agility brings me to my knees
You sit by my side and pick off my lice
we share those nits; oh they taste so nice!
‘The Funky Gibbon’ is my favourite song
I taught you the words, now you sing along!
There’s been no monkey business, although I’ve tried
But my attraction for you cannot be denied
My desire for you I cannot let pass …
I’m captivated by your huge red ass!
Its red colour means you’re due for ovulation
Lets get it on and increase the baboon population!
Love letter Contest
Sponsored by Viv Wigley
Contest rules - "A love letter, but NOT from a human or to a human. It must be from any other species, either to a member of the same species or maybe a different one"
10-30-17
Ever since my parents bought me a Grundig TV for my room,
And every week day unquestioned and without fail,
I've watched the Channel 4 News avidly, glued to it,
From when I was ten when my ship did at last sail.
I fell in love with Jon Snow instantly as a father figure,
A socialist or social democratic who would interpret,
Political and social events in a way that I understood,
Without any superiority or cold, aloof mood.
My best subject at university was marketing,
Came top in my second year Easter class exam
And everyday when I watched it I analysed Jon’s socks and ties,
Until I was 17, I could predict to myself the next days dyes.
This made me so happy and empowered me to continue,
In that Christian fundamentalist world of criticism and guilt,
But the C4 News was my little secret which I kept to myself,
As I was taught not to love things like that, of a worldly, societal lilt.
I was a devious child towards my parents and their religion,
And lived by admitting only to liking that which I loved,
So that they could have the satisfaction of disciplining me straight,
But pass me by as someone who religion did very much hate.
I had my own sequence, mathematical formula in my head,
And the first day I got my television when the light was ahead,
Because my dad used to monitor what I viewed with intense interest,
I did not flip channels somedays, to suggest no deviation was in my head.
And when Krishnan Guru-Murthy joined the show in 1998,
(I had predicted it from his way at BBC news presenting);
As he reported in Newsnight and BBC 24’s current events programme,
And I thought he would compliment Jon Snow and for youth be an emblem.
I'm hesitant to say that I used to be able to,
Predict when he would grow a beard in playful discourse,
But I knew that he would always shave it off again,
‘Cos that concerned, innocent face is not for recourse.
I like Garry Gibbon, love Kathy Newman, Jackie Long and Matt Frei,
And Paul Mason always gets to the roots of the economics issues;
Lindsey Hilsum and Helia Ebrahimi give such good reports,
And Geoff White always excites me with his technology eye.
By Phan Tan Hai
Each day I go into the forest to gather,
hoping to bring home something for my child
to ease the hunger—fumbling like a monkey,
a gibbon clinging to branches, pushing through leaves.
The mountains and forests of words are fog-thick;
I weigh with both hands, both feet, both sides
of the mind—this is a good fruit,
sweet fruit; that one is poison, harmful fruit.
These are bamboo shoots, tender leaves
I hope will warm my child’s stomach
in this cold human life. Each day I
go into the forest to gather—dry fruit,
ripe fruit, tending to the fresh ones,
watching nervously the hunters
at the foot of the mountain, ready to burn the woods.
I fear the monkeys, gibbons, deer, and antelope
will lose their land, their cries
tearing the heart each day; the frantic
tracks of beasts fleeing in terror;
the forest and mountains writhing in pain—
and I stand there, crying with them.
Each day I climb to the mountain peak,
bending over books, hoping
this human life will pass quickly, hearing
the world’s voices echo from afar—
joy, sorrow, complaints, sighs,
and even voices from a thousand years ago,
still dry with the smell of paper,
resounding with songs of praise
and shouts of anger. Each day I
wade through forests, cross streams, digging
through layers of yellow leaves and green leaves,
picking out each word, lifting it
to admire in wonder—this word heavy,
that word light, another tender,
another wounded,
this one with a hundred-year lifespan,
that one ancient for centuries;
this word sells well, that one hardly
sells—behind them flicker human faces:
gaunt, suffering, joyful…
The human world is sad like bamboo and reeds;
and I sit in the middle of life and weep,
hearing rivers and streams flow in my chest,
seeing forests rise and grow into my hair—
each day going into the forest to gather.
A hungry thought escaped
from a great bear cave.
It squints in the sunlight
and shakes out the stiffness.
Dries out the pang on a fat, wet rock...
Then takes to the trees.
Swinging like a gibbon on crack
(or the village drunk praying from the rack)
gasping for bits of anything).
It looks up and takes to the air
way beyond the stratosphere.
Playing with stars and meteors
(dirty boy playing with cat eyes and jacks).
This cave thought can love hard.
but will also destroy...
all in one breath.
It forgets where it came from
doesn't care where it is.
Has no purpose other than just being.
Like wind from a bear cave.
I’ll light a small fire beside the river that night,
And stand and gaze up to the sky.
Hopefully no clouds, the moon will be full,
A cold second night of July.
It’ll be peaceful and quiet, everyone else in bed,
No buses or trucks or cars.
I’ll stand right there, relaxing my thoughts,
Just looking up through the stars.
I wonder about what others choose to do,
Do when the moon is so pure.
Photography or trading? Hunting or surfing?
Or fishing with a special night lure?
The moon intrigues me; the eclipses, equinoxes and solstices,
The waxing crescent, waning gibbon and a quarter.
And every month I choose a full moon to meditate,
With the sand, fire, air, moon and water.
This is the first full moon after the solstice,
But this July’s a bit more appealing.
It’s this year’s blue moon which can only mean,
There’ll be two nights of spiritual healing.
Stretching and lowering their head submissively
Two tiger cubs in a fun frolic play and kittens yowl
Actively under trees, limbs, and leaf brushes passivity
Hugs, scratches, bites, and tiger growls
Along comes a black heart face gibbon
Swinging from branch to branch in high-speed
No tail, arms as long as his body like ribbons
Teasing he joins in “You can’t catch me! Yes indeed!”
Swinging from branch to branch in high- speed
Reaching for the cubs as fast as he could
He pulls their ears and pulls their tail to take heed
Can't seem to get enough of play since he began
The cubs jump and stretch and extended their claws
With all their efforts falling back to the ground with no avail
They suck and draw breath playing hide-seek to get their jaws
on the gibbon. From behind, the gibbon stood on the ground and pulled their tails
They turned and chased as fast as they could and failed
Worn out conveying a lack of interest they walked away
Swinging from branch to branch in high-speed he stopped and inhaled
“Where are you going?he wailed.I’m not done playing? Come back to play another day. “
9/9/2016
Animal Antics - Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Shadow Hamilton
Understandable... the sensible
(three ringed circuitous) logic
to trumpet necessity
each individual moost heed
bedecking, cloaking donning,
ludicrous interloper facial covering,
(I prefer sporting
latest custom made
invisible máscaras faciales),
when commingling amidst madding crowd,
nevertheless coronavirus (COVID-19)
makes laughingstock kickstarting
maniacal paranoid testing yapping
authoritarians blabber ceaselessly
bleak household pandemic
plagues (sear ring)
robust human specimen,
hence yours truly,
a feckless (gibbon) primate
breathes sigh of relief,
why? cuz he counts himself insignificant
absolute zero worth
versus microscopic prickly orb
aging long haired pencil neck geek
best beat hasty retreat
to his man cave
not necessarily avoiding microbial denizen,
yet any potential suffering
scouting out troubadour woefully
jackknifed inept hideaway
availed no choice
rolls out Harris tweed Scottish matt
courtesy minuscule germ man
greeting me with gotcha!,
I willingly surrender
the only thing at stake iz my life,
which would immediately
ebb fate (mine),
automatically buzzfeed chap
offer no chance
for symbiotic relationship
as pathogens indeed choreograph
(dirty deed done dirt cheap)
loft hilly doth waft
through cellular skeins comprising
garden variety/ generic gent
herewith essentially crafting
his poetic epitaph
before onset disables,
disallows, and disvalues
one humble, intelligent, jesting
kindhearted, literate, modest
nincompoop aimlessly adrift
within Brownian movement
(*****sapiens random motions
viewed miles skyhigh)
ostentatious, piteous, querulous,
ridiculous, superfluous, et cetera,
thus forward donations
and/or pledge
(I promise you -
swear to dog
portion of me ashes)
to favorite charity
and will hoop to visit thee as repurposed
noun, verb, adjective, adverb, pronoun,
preposition, conjunction, interjection,
numeral, article, or determiner...
When I come back I will be a gibbon.
Leaping and bounding from trees,
Swinging and laughing, enjoying my long arms,
Loving my life, my arms like long ribbons.
I will make friends with red howler monkeys,
When they migrate to Asia, where I live. Why?
Because they are ridiculously cute, and I love the
Way they use their tail like another arm, do or die!
Or I might come back as a colobus monkey, because
I really love swinging in trees! They stay up there
No matter what, during rain, and not so gentle breeze.
No wait, I will be an orangutan, living on Borneo.
I like fruit, and I do so much love the idea of this, so!
Unless I can be a chimpanzee, when I come back, or a gorilla.
There are so many choices, and I might even be a man, a simple fella.
This was our song on the radio
When we held each other near
We danced and sang
Kissed and swang
And caught each others tears
You held me close
I could feel your heart
Beating to the rhythm
We slid apart still holding hands
As we danced to the funky gibbon
When they played the next song
You had me laughing loud
You really got down
To that birdie song
You were like a funny clown
All these little memories
I kept within my heart
I can see us both dancing now
But then you went
And broke my heart
You danced to mud and tiger feet
And you really started to move
I couldn’t keep up
You made me duck
And it put me in a mood
So tender are those sweet things
That we both enjoyed
How we loved to laugh and dance
We had a special place
To hold those toys
© Copyright KC.Leake
18th April 2015
All Rights Reserved
Treating me like I’m lucky to know you
when you are so lowly I’d rather be lonely
here is a treat that I’m happy to show you
you’re in my life and then do not know me
deluding yourself in the view of your ego
believing your better when you’re not my equal
not saying I’m good but you are just evil
thinking you’re better than all other people
the world is a forest and you are a gibbon
you see very little when senses sense within
oblivious to all whilst selfishly driven
you think you’ve got talent you must be kidding
a child walking where adults are found
unaware of what is found all around
believing yourself through words you sound
challenging people that will knock you down
the ignorant bliss that you use as a shield
you’re French at Agincourt found dead in a field
what you have’s visible and clearly revealed
you’re mentally ill with belief you are skilled
offering nothing but a personal dream
of something you’re not and have never been
of someone you think you are nobody’s seen
thinking you’re alpha when you’re Mr. Bean!