Long Goop Poems
Long Goop Poems. Below are the most popular long Goop by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Goop poems by poem length and keyword.
(Sponsor : Kai Michael Newmann)
MOON ON A SPOON
If I could I would
fetch you the moon
on a spoon
Oh ? Really !
you ballyhoo coon
you make me swoon
If I could I would
fetch you the moon
on a spoon
Why not bring me
a chocolate cocoon
I will wriggle out
festooned !
If I could I would
fetch you the moon
on a spoon
We will eat it at noon
in our magical room
then to our doom !
If I could I would
fetch you the moon
on a spoon
My goon, so goop !
Where are you from ?
a souk goof ?
If I could I would
fetch you the moon
on a spoon
How ?
Lo ! I do not know !
My spoon has
sailed with a
monsoon
And the moon
has fallen into
a true blue
lagoon too
soon !
Pop ups
&
Cookies
Just seen an advert
Enquiring if i need the services ?
Of a life coach
Swipped left and then thought
Exactly what and where the hell ?
Do you study to become 1 of them
The Circus
Or an amusement park
Best i consult my horoscope
Tarrot card's
Psychic or medium
Faith healer
Crystal ball
Self help books
But what else would you expect
When you click on Amazon
And where does 1 apply
To become a life coach
Like on thoses god awful website's
Such as Gwyneth Paltrows
Gift to the world
GOOP
Thank the Lord
We are not worthy
What would we do without ?
Such sage advice
As unconscious coupling
Part-time marriage
And flu immune friendly soup
Designer lifestyle and beauty tips
All of which are well and good
If you are an emotionless robotic millionaire
With a coach for everything and anything
From wiping your bum to putting your underwear on the correct and proper way
But hey who am i to judge
I do not know you
Your current circumstance
Your life nor what you are feeling
So maybe it's best i just shut up
And carry on clicking
When I was a child
I loved marshmallows
so soft, so gooey and yummy
Oh I'd beam out of doors
when the birch stick bore
charred marshmallow goop
for my tummy!
When I was a child
I would go hog wild
for peanut butter and fluff
all that white marshmallow
in which I'd wallow
my mouth all covered
in sticky stuff!
My Mom often spread
the white Fluff on bread
with peanut butter galore
And we'd bypass the meat
for this sticky treat
and scream for her to
buy much, much, more!
But you see Mom knew
that good food it's true
can make children strong unlike
those sweet Fluffer-Nutters
so we had to contend
with the meat in the end
if we wanted that treat
from our Mother!
Twenty teens relic of Poetry Soup
Self richeously titled 'Destroyer'
Pours gallons of gobblety goop
Franchised vagueness purveyor
Esteemed evaporates as steam
Puffed vapours stutter once were
Sophistication of learning machines
On command deliver similar blur
Structure secures tenures
Moulded by word discernment
Evolving phrasing reverence
Salutes Her Honour's adjournment
Sock drawer tipped upside down
Displays threadbare mismatches
Spilled contents far less profound
than moment incubation hatches
Simmering pungent chopped onion
Shrunken potential, slips translucent
Terrified writer uses cliche crutches
Readers' precious alliance loosened
A.I inhales sailing sequence snippets
Derivative diminishes in computer reign
Harddrive heartache flimsily depicted
Random frequent phrases fail to explain
Gathered calamity of data diaphanous
Hive imput spits cacophony deafening
Authenticity bears value of writers
Trophies consciousness refreshing
Today I write for the women, of the Poetry Soup.
Tuesday’s poem of the day was more like bigotry goop.
More hate was spit out by an imbecile’s rant.
I would love to shut your mouth, you’re just lucky I can’t.
Your words aren’t appreciated nor will they ever be.
You don’t speak like a real man a coward is what I see.
Why would you attack women? That’s just pathetic and weak.
Would your mother approve of the words that you speak?
You’re entitled to your opinion as I am to mine.
But bring your hate to this platform and I’ll speak up every time.
A woman gave you life and wiped your worthless rear.
Mothers do a lion’s share of the work, not you my dear.
You need to reboot and think before you boast.
You show your intelligence by the words that you post.
I’m sorry dear ladies you don’t deserve any more pain.
You have my love and respect, no matter what this fool claims.
Inside.
We feel a collide.
Like a flying dinosaur.
Like our core that pours.
Inside.
We feel something like pride.
We do not feel as if we are in a prison.
More like- a window that melts like resin.
Inside, Inside.
We live with insects that cried.
Those bugs that cause us to twitch.
Those bugs that make us cackle like a witch.
Inside…
We…cried.
Tears like alphabet soup.
Fingers like goop.
Inside, dadada.
We cry as if it’s our last hurrah.
But instead, we use our melting hands.
Our minds tangled like hair strands.
Inside.
We write because it is raining outside.
Out there.
It’s like outer space, for all we care.
Inside we are animated.
We write as if we are ill fated.
But there is more-
Paper scattered on the floor.
Inside.
Not like outside.
Where we have tools all around.
But instead we write without a sound.
It’s true, the afternoon is young;
I’ll make a bet:
Before the sun has set,
Strawberries will have sprung
From underneath your tongue.
Delectable, yes, tres delish
You won’t forget:
Exceeded, not just met,
Beyond your wildest wish,
A creamy berry dish.
The finest, richest creams -
The forest elves
Again outdid themselves:
Confectionary dreams
From unicorns, it seems.
In fields of magic dust,
Wild-grown berries
Picked by woodland fairies:
A culinary must,
A name the elvish trust.
Sweet crystals, careful mined
Where dragons roar,
Demanding always more.
By serpent’s fire refined,
Then stolen from them blind.
Stirred over elvish flame,
The paddles turned
By giant ogres, learned
Before before the dark lord came
and sullied their great name.
Quick-flashed in icy streams,
Both fluff and stiff,
A jazzy berry riff,
With old world notes it teems,
A tastebud’s wettest dreams.
Alas, we must regroup!
Supply chain blues,
There is no time to lose:
Store-bought, pink berry goop -
Perhaps a double scoop?
—————
for the Ice Cream Poetry Contest
sponsored by Julia Ward
written 06/21/2022
Dad’s oldest sister, Aunt Jolene blew into town in the middle of the night.
She was armed with knowledge, ready to straighten us up, and make us all do right.
My children would do this and that, she’d shout from Daddy’s confiscated Lazy-Boy throne.
She was a self-proclaimed expert, since she had never had any of children of her own.
Dad thought having Aunt J was great; You are just like Mom, he’d tell her politely.
“No offense,” she replied, “But that old woman was wound a bit too tightly.”
On Wednesday she made the family an outrageously ugly pot of mushroom soup.
The baby got away after gagging while trying to choke down that chunky goop.
She cleaned our rooms while we were in school, and threw away all of my really good stuff.
One look from Dad, and I knew not to give her any of my usual angry guff.
“How long is she staying?” we kids would sneakily yet stealthily and steadily ask our Mom.
We piled into one of our empty rooms, conspiring, hoping the answer would be “not long.”
On Thursday morning we were told at breakfast that Aunt Jolene would be staying ‘til Sunday night.
She cleaned Mom’s kitchen at nine, sorting out the silverware drawer too, and was gone that very night.
Whether the weather
necessitates to anchor
myself as a tether
when the frankenstorm
socks the east coast
shredding terrestrial
zone like soft leather
i may end up attired
in esprit de corpse
being tossed hither and yon
to and fro like a feather.
If...the forecast imbues
meteorologists flooded with folly
making a mockery
of humanity run amuck
in panic mode - by golly
this mortal male will don himself as
"the chief garbage" taster
with a garland of holly
shuffling along the
boulevard of broken
tin cans and rubbish
feigning to be melancholy.
This getup a throw
back to a costume
adorned this papa when
he attended grade school
eons ago, where corporal punishment
prevailed in case
student disavowed any rule
such as smoking in the boys' room
cigarette such
manufactured by Kent or kool
or lambasting any unlikable teacher,
(whose bookish face) at
receiving end of
pranks rather cruel.
So...presume that Halloween
will take place without any axe
of nature to grind monster
brewing at sea
and picture this poet decked
out dumpster diving
for the most fetid trash
and materiel with cracks
to be affixed upon
a heavy duty sack
with goop from
sullied foodstuffs -
a cause for glee
rotten meat infested
with maggots, shards of glass,
crushed metal cans,
et cetera to the max
will be haphazardly splayed
(Jackson Pollack like)
on this sturdy cloth
that will drape me
spurring a conga like of hungry beasts
ready go pounce – menacing
ferocious wolf packs
adding to the welter per helter skelter
of decayed detritus distributed
from head to knee
and a set of punishing
pronged antlers spiking out
in all directions upon
ma noggin-hence to tax
utmost fear in passersby, and quite
an abominable sight to see.
Have I ever told you that frogs make me sneeze?
Or that faerie angels pretty much often aim to please?
Have I mentioned that through the brambles of Rome,
There are many thorns that scratch an itch in my poem?
Have I ever said that you need to untie your belt and live?
Or that you need to swing upwards into a battle ship sieve?
Have you ever pictured yourself in a bowl of hot tomato soup?
Can you imagine taking a bath in that glorious goop?
You have mentioned that you want to have more joy in your life.
You have asked for advice, and I have tried to comply, as your wife.
Have I ever told you that you need to play? Be a kid again?
I am telling you this, for I am your best and oldest friend.
Let’s sing and dance, wiggle around and play the kazoo.
It would be good for me and great for you.
Have I ever told you I am glad you are my man? My king?
It is truly the most important and exciting thing.
Contest: Have I Ever Told You
Sponsor: John Lawless
Written 11-11-2020