Long Goose Poems
Long Goose Poems. Below are the most popular long Goose by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Goose poems by poem length and keyword.
Not remembering you in joy
how had this come to be?
No memories of you content,
no happiness to see.
No happiness for your whole life
though plenty filled your plate.
Bards filled your mind at early age
with beauty on the page.
The home you had was pin cushion small
pincushion small, it pricked
with a violent soul rent from the Guf
raw poverty , rent and licked.
While violets held the windowsills
and mother’s soul was sweet
denial visited much too oft
father’s drunken anger did compete
Longfellow laced your nascent mind
The Children’s Hour your treat.
You escaped to Edgar’s house
The Raven at your feet.
You read to me from Golden Books
of Joseph’s many colored coat.
Mother goose set the dreamscape
as Nod rowed by in boats.
I know this must have happened oft
yet no memory do I retain.
Just the lilt of longing reciting
of others happiness on the page.
May the Guf be kind to you
and return you full of joy.
May the sparrow find for you
a kinder living story.
Dr Seuss
Are you a cat
Or a goose
Sorry, I must not say that
It may offend the cat or the goose
Dr Seuss
I'm so sorry
That you feel the need
To withdraw some books that
Are a delight to read
To children everywhere
Dr Seuss
Do you think that children even notice
Or even care
What colour, country, culture
Mentioned in your books
Dr Seuss
To point out differences where there is none.
Instead of teaching, we are all the same under the sun.
Dr Seuss
Perhaps we should bar
Tall people
Short people
Fat people
Skinny people
Bandy people
Sandy people
Cats with tall hats
Opinionated poets
This was a poem I put on Poetry Soup previously
Lady Fingers is from the House of Kent
The House of Lords would not accept her
Royal lineage apparently must be respected
Her family coat of arms hangs on the wall
The shield has nicks and dents from wars
History suggests she was not in attendance
Though her face and age show otherwise
Battle scars should not be ignored
Lady Fingers is delicate and demur
Her petticoat drags along the marble floor
She keeps her figure by eating only figs
An index finger and a thumb hold tea
The key to the chastity belt is long gone
Not to worry
The combination to the madame's heart is easy
One turn to the right to 9, twice to the left to 7
Another rotation clockwise till you reach 2
The Lady's safe is safe from all intruders
Including you you silly goose
We live in a beautiful world
Where the earth is Rich and pure
And can provide for everyone
Where the way of life
Can be free and beautiful
We want to live by each other's happiness
And not by each other's misery
We do not want to hate
And despise one another
But we have lost the way
Greed has poisoned men's souls
Has barricaded the world with hate
Has goose-stepped us into bloodshed
Our knowledge has made us cynical
Our cleverness has made us hard
We now tend to think too much
And as a result, feel too little
But now more than knowledge
We need humanity
More than cleverness
We need kindness and gentleness
Without these qualities
Life will be full of violence
And with this path, all will be lost
Let's all try to re-find the way.
#PoeticLord#
(c) January 2019
I looked high and low to find Becca's muse
I searched in the barn looked under a goose
For that strange fellow with long flowing hair
He wears interesting clothes and has great flare
In his pocket inspiration is kept
He sprinkled magic whenever she slept
We are sad she hasn't written in days
No more poetry to read and to praise
I keep up my searching, him I must find
Without her verse I'll go out of my mind
My search ends after I look every place
He hoots and hollers he so loved the chase
"Go back to my friend she misses you bad,
if you rush back she will truly be glad."
He smiled a broad smile and bid me farewell
"It won't be long, she'll have stories to tell."
Sometimes a muse must gather inspiration
Running from me his little vacation
So now he's back with her where he belongs
Soon we'll read poetry and lovely songs
Dedicated to my friend Becca.
Work in progress
THE LION IN THE WINTER
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
May, nineteen-forty~
France bleeds out,
a crimson tide.
jackboots goose-step across Europe,
a continent silenced
gagged by swastikas.
They thought him broken~
the old lion, his mane frosted,
a relic of an empire,
a voice too gravelly,
a toothless roar,
too old.
September bleeds
into a desperate autumn.
He sees the maps,
the relentless gray advance~
the English channel
a fragile moat against the tide
of Reitstiefel und Hakenkreuze.
He stands,
a lion in the winter,
and roars:
“We shall fight on the beaches,
we shall fight on the landing grounds,
we shall fight in the fields and in the streets,
we shall fight in the hills;
we shall never surrender.
His words, like granite,
hang in the air,
thick with battlefield smoke
and hope~
hurled against the storm,
a lifeline thrown to a teetering nation.
The island stands,
Churchill’s darkest hour,
forged into a beacon.
Reitstiefel und Hakenkreuze. (army boots and swastikas)
THE WILD GOOSE CHASE*
I accidentally let one loose
did you see that thing vamoose?
It gave me the slip, did you see?
Now that thing is awfully free.
I walk on pins and needles, friend.
Trying to find, I twist and bend.
You ask why I pull up the rug,
why I pull out every plug.
I raise my hands over my head
and flip over each unmade bed.
I flip out, scratch, harrumph, grumble,
dash around corners, stumble.
At night I turn off all the lights,
sit in the corner, battle bites.
I listen for terrible sounds.
My eyes dart round and round and round.
Afraid of where that thing will land —
on the mountain or in the sand.
I feel empty of all this gas.
I miss the sound of golden brass
and the smog that liquifies eyes,
the way your ribbon twists and lies.
The putrefaction of butt —
the stinker where we blame the mutt!
7/11/2018
Messina’s I accidentally let one loose poetry contest
*Wild Goose chase - a wild or absurd search for something
To goose - to squeeze a butt cheek
Thomas Turkey is trying to avoid the dreaded chopping block!
He's trying to become inconspicuous amongst the teeming flock!
As you thank the Good Lord this year for your many blessings,
Nothing would taste sweeter than Peking duck with your dressings!
Kith and kin, may I recommend, might prefer a roast of beef.
Surely, that would save my friends and me a whole heap o' grief!
Goose, roasted tender and brown, you might consider for your fare.
Instead of turkey to grace your board, how about some wild hare!
Vanity, the haughty eagles's trait, which I think is so absurd,
Is what won it the honor of being selected for the national bird!
Now, 'tis well known that Mr. Franklin wanted us for that role.
Good try, Ben my boy! May God bless your thoughtful soul!
During the Thanksgiving Season I'm finding it so hard to relax,
As I scurry about to and fro trying to elude that fearsome axe!
You'd be dining on roasted eagle for Thanksgiving if Ben had had his way!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
© All Rights Reserved
Placed No. 7 in Dane Ann Smith-Johnson's "Thanksgiving Day" Contest - Dec 2010
In the beginning, the Word stood alone,
A solitary witness to creation.
Its single nascent syllable was pleasant in tone,
But found itself in need of conversation.
In the beginning, the Word harnessed time,
Till language lit the darkness of existence.
It wove an epic narrative of meter and rhyme
For Echo to get jiggy with Narcissus.
In the beginning, the Word could be heard
To lend its voice to vendors hawking merch.
It sacrificed its soul to play the mockingbird,
Dispensing infomercials from its perch.
In the beginning, the Word was pristine,
But soon became corrupted by the Man.
Xenophobic buzzwords vented venom from spleen.
Political invective fouled the land.
In the beginning, the Word learned deceit,
Revealing innuendo like a stripper,
Commemorating Salomé’s sinister feat
With tropes and taglines framed as sacred scripture.
In the beginning, the Word stood in awe,
Aware of its potential for abuse.
It sifted man from superman by quoting Bernard Shaw,
Then authorized The Tales of Mother Goose.
“Other Worlds They have not Lived”
Writers, and poets, just like musicians
feel they have the pulse of things,
it’s an arrogance that declares
I know, so much more than you,
I know of such things,
so much better than you.
I have lived more of a life,
I have a deeper capacity to feel.
The reader watches
the dance, and thinks -
no, no you don’t
know better than I,
nor would you
ever want to.
There is a lightness
in the limerick
a joie de vivre
innocent,
macabre or satire,
but underneath
the undertow
there rises more
mysterious darker things
that lift you up towards
some luminocity, even if
one exists stagnant
in the in-between -
their words like lines cast,
make your heart swell
and like an ocean they
pull you back in.
You'd gladly drown
in their verbosity.
To write the story
one must live,
to write the story
one must read,
to read,
one must concede,
there are other worlds
one has never lived,
nor will ever live.
(LadyLabyrinth / 2023)
“While he writes,
I feel
as if he
is drawing me;
or not drawing me,
drawing on me--
drawing on my skin--
not with the pencil he is using,
but with an old-fashioned goose pen,
and not with the quill end
but with the feather end.
As if hundreds of butterflies
have settled all over my face,
and are softly opening
and closing their wings.
But underneath
that is another feeling,
a feeling of being
wide-eyed awake
and watchful.
It's like being
wakened suddenly
in the middle of the night,
by a hand over your face,
and you sit up
with your heart going fast,
and no one is there.
And underneath that
is another feeling still,
a feeling
like being torn open;
not like a body of flesh,
it is not painful as such,
but like a peach;
and not even torn open,
but ripe and splitting open
of its own accord.
And inside the peach
there's a stone.”
("Alias Grace"/Margaret Atwood)