Long Globs Poems
Long Globs Poems. Below are the most popular long Globs by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Globs poems by poem length and keyword.
Alligator alley always answers
Bringing bulbous batches of bubbles
Creatively and curiously cavorting
Deliberately denying and distorting
Elusive energy and enthusiasm
From freakish forwarding fanatics who foresee
Glorious globs of grotesque gossip
Hereon, hereto and herewith heralded
In illustrious illumination indicating ideas
Joyfully and joyously justifying
Kibitzing kindnesses of kith and kin
Labelling luxurious languages, lumping them as lovely.
Manifesting monstrous maniacal mystical miracles
Needing Nirvana and Never-never-land nuisances
Opposed to outrageous ornateness and ordinariness.
Persecuting prideful pompousness and prissiness.
Respectfully receiving responsible rectifiable residents
Such serious succulent sensuous senatorial secrets!
Truth touching tremendous thunderous tentacles
Understating understandably undeniable underlying unity
Verifying villainous vexing vindicators
Willfully wishing willy-nilly wispy ways will work wonders
‘Xpecting ‘xceptionally ‘xperimental ‘xperts
Yoking the young and youthful,
Zippy zealots showing zany zesty zealous ways.
My process is like dots.
Not stars, just nothing dots.
Rearranging.
Tangled netting and dragonfly parts.
Whatever I can grab and throw in the shopping cart.
That sinks through the tile.
I thought things were solid for once.
Then the holes got torn up.
And the dragonfly eyes too.
Disintegrated.
In such a poem which is made of sentences and more.
My process is like dots.
Spiky, horned dots.
Maybe a few blobs and globs enticing.
The end of a poem isn’t scary.
Or strange.
It's thirsty, but the end is that drink.
My process.
Like a pen that doesn’t worry about anything.
Nothing dots and dragonfly parts.
Wheeling me away.
Like they did five years ago.
"I am feeling it." He said.
He meant his age. As I watched
I saw a vision…
Out from the cuttlefish bones of his breast
grime coughed up and dribbled.
I saw his heart stutter, the vapid flutter,
watched his lungs belch and utter
like a broken bladder.
A horseman on a creaking steed
raised its hoary head
and pointed an ancient ladle
speaking thus -
"Stir me belly lad," it said,
"spoon me sticky sump,
dole globs of lymph from here to there.
Me grease is dumpy and lumpy.
Me hip-bones crunch
while me dingle wilts and dangles.
Me ears is gummy lad,
I've gone to the bad.”
The specter faded.
The old guy smiles, rubs his thin hair.
"I also see it sometimes," he says,
"that liver-spotted ghost
that chains me to an even older vision
of you."
The tide and heavy seas
had washed up a wealth
of treasures to lay at my feet
spread out in a long line
just like the way wares
are displayed on the street
of an outdoor market.
Shells, some polished
to a sheen others just broken
shards of a puzzle never
to be put back together again.
Tresses of weed, float bladders,
a cuttlefish bone and globs
of jellyfish shaped like petrified
tears as if once welled
out of the eyes of a whale.
Then there was a hoard
of man made stuff, plastic cups
and brightly coloured beads
of who knows what, spoons
and bottle tops, matted balls
of red and green twine
and fishing line knitted into
swatches of transparent twill,
a smorgasbord of human
endeavor all laid out in wonder
and ready to kill.
Bags under my eyes.
Are a horrible nothing.
Coffee for me right now…
Would help the globs of pasta sauce clear.
Under my eyelids.
The puffiness everlasts.
Jagged underneath.
One eye is sagging more.
One eye is worse.
That’s how they know it’s horrible.
That the eyes are uneven.
Coffee for me would be like dark matter clearing.
Bugs in my eyelids.
Not surprised, it’s just crawling.
My pulse sends out a message.
About evergreen trees up north.
Bags under my eyes.
Can’t surprise me.
The mirror just caves in.
Like globs of alien slime.
Coffee might be my only choice.
As I gravitate toward this mug.
Heavy as if it’s filled with metal shards.
But it’s empty again.
Hateful as they may be, to the eye
and ear, the elimination of words,
statues, ideas, etc., will do nothing
toward making a venom free society –
to flood with light, explaining,
though far more difficult,
more laborious (seemingly impossible
at times) is the only palatable good.
A great, natural builder, artist,
builds his (his/hers – God I hate this,
Politically Correct) foundation using
those odd, irregular stones as well as the
seeming, symmetrically perfect –
variations, outliers are a blessing,
and not a Cosmic Blemish –
the fault, if any to be laid, is when using
ourselves, needlessly, hurtfully -- making
arrow-heads of the pen's of Valentines...
Taking free-thought away from children
will only do away with individuality,
leaving soulless shells instead --
not cleansed human beings, ready for
fresh priming; but globs of rancid, detergent
filled sponges -- the soppy, dead remains,
of what were once, thriving, healthy, alive
brains...
gone any true worthfulness, and sense
of sacred being....
Is there anything finer than mashed potatoes
Mixed with cabbage, a mountain of joy
Scrumptious with globs of bad-for-you butter
And sprinkled with parsley, oh boy!
Constantly dream bout this scrumptious delight
Sure sends me to the moon with glee
Don't need no ham or carrot and pea medley
Just blobs of butter if you please
Don't want none of that Beef Wellington stuff
That fine old English tradition
With boiled potatoes oh how uninspiring
Gonna pass it with your permission
Good old “bubble 'n squeak” is what they call it
Can't think of another dish finer
Just a simple old guy with a simple old taste
A down to earth kind of a diner
So serving me that stuff for brekkie, or din-din
Guaranties my friendship for life
With enormous globs of bad-for-you butter
Just a fork, no need for a knife!
© Jack Ellison 2013
Steaming.
I could go to work in a work car, work clothes, work shoes…
Or just simmer like pajama pants.
When I’m getting ready.
Soup.
That’s what time is.
Something that’s not horrible, but it’s awkward, and hiding in shoes.
Globs of stuff like prayers, that I’ll make it! Yes!
Slippery, laughing soup.
I have a work car, clothes, shoes.
But instead I stayed home to scoop up whatever cold broth is in me.
Leftover like all the fridge magnets I tore down.
It’s all soup and getting ready for work.
Lips falling off into the bowl.
Already slimy with my slobber.
Steam hitting me over and over.
I don’t think this is how you get into heaven.
But maybe I can get to work on time.
So might as well pile my body and willingness into this car.
And those work shoes are ruined already for no reason.
There’s a million things in a prayer soup.
Not much excuse anymore.
I’m a soup.
I’m not too good to become microwave slop.
Steaming.
glib glassy green-eyed gruesome ghoulish goblins grabbing gloriously
glitzy glimmers of gourmet garnish. Giants give garbled ghosts gruff
growls. Gargantuous groups of glamorous gargoyles give greeters
goopy green gravy. Garbanzos grab globs of giant gamblling goulash.
Glum grieving giraffes generate gibberish in German. Granulated grocers gripe about grimy glittering goblets. Gainful games google greening, guessing about grimy graveyards of gruffly grotesque ghouls. Glam Grandma Gigi gazed at gradual greasy grasshopper’s greedy game-changing griddles and granolas. Grazing garbled granite gleaned Greta Garbo’s grateful giblet. Gus’s glorious greasy gangly go-go galoshes garnishing Gilly's’s gristled grizzled gemstone gleaning gallons of gracious gangly gallows.
Looked at the obituaries
saw that I was dead
Thought I felt tired
so I went back to bed
Try to call my number
but it was disconnected
Maybe it is for the best
now I won't be suspected
Going to the drive through
my order did not go far
Apparently for the drive through
you need to be in a car
Told my pooka friend Larry
I just couldn't bear it
Larry smiled and reply
I like orange carrots
I daydream nightmares
while I'm wide awake
I collect broken snow globes
cause I don't like to shake
Lava Lamps bewitch me
slow globs colorful glows
Chaos in a bottle
that never overflows