Long Grunting Poems
Long Grunting Poems. Below are the most popular long Grunting by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Grunting poems by poem length and keyword.
When I became pressed tight with the grunting weight of evolutionary greed, the inequality exportation of this evolutionary greedy cosmos.
I decided that I will not let time or circumstance continue to define me, not since I read the prevailing words of Jesus: Heaven and Earth shall pass away, but my words will not pass away.
Then, like a puff of Divine Inspiration, I remembered Apostle Peter's letter to the church: A day of warning that the Priest Most High will come like a thief. The Heavens will disappear with a roar, the Element will be destroyed by fire, and the Earth and everything done in it will be laid bare.
In my mindset, it became a strong manifestation.
Jesus' Divine wisdom and teachings offer eternal salvation that will outlast the material universe, and that eternal soul will outlast the physical world.
Even during the octogenarian stage of my life, with a compassionate spirit, I will keep strong in following Jesus's unique philosophy.,
I will hold close to my heart his covenant.
Like rushing fast as a New York Subway, I will be keeping quick my ambition to keep my faith in Jesus' promise.
Even if life and death are non-literal, yet in a metaphorical sense, I will keep my wit swift.
Although I am small in stature and uncomely, oftentimes I am not articulate enough to express my faith in God, yet I will be like an emboldened Lark with profound strength and courage to remind others how Jesus was sent here through the lineage of Judah and that he is the way of righteousness sent here with a Divine instrument against the ungodly.
2 Peter chapter 3 verse 10 Isaiah 65:17 Revelation 21;1
Poe was always revising his prose between publications. Here are the longest extended versions of sentences he shortened for their final publication in his lifetime:
"We loved each other with a love that was more than love, more love than fit in an empty grotes bag, more than the love of worms if you were a hungry, hungry catfish."
"I became insane, with long intervals of sanity, then more insanity, then sane for a while, then my brain got all twisted up and went mad, then I got better. I've lost track."
"All that we see or seem is but a dream within a dream, within another dream, within a rusty tubular tin box of sewing needles made into the handle of a doll's hairbrush."
"Believe only half of what you see, nothing of what you hear, three quarters of what you taste, one-tenth of what you feel, but the entirety of what you smell."
"Those who dream by day are cognizant of many things which escape those who dream only by night, as for example bats, yes bats, did you know you could leave the cage door open in the bright of day and your bats will go nowhere."
"Sleep, those little slices of death, how I loathe them, also the neighbor's nippy little dog, egads I hate that dog."
"If you wish to forget anything on the Spot, make a note that this thing is to be remembered, then tie it to Spot's collar, and turn him loose in some terrible neighborhood where people eat dogs."
"To elevate the soul, poetry is necessary, also those little candy root beer barrels."
"I felt that I breathed an atmosphere of sorrow, but it was Catterina that farted."
"I fell violently on my face, rolled to my side, grunted horrible grunts of gruntlyness, then flopped onto my back and waved my arms all about, still grunting."
"Darkness and Decay and the Red Death held illimitable dominion over all, while Catterina licked her paws and I felt around in my pocket for my last dime but all I found was a raggedy little hole."
September meets with warm embrace,
quickening the harvest pace,
though looming autumn can't efface
what's left of summer's arid grace.
The linen hanging on the line
dances with the gust and shine,
while maypops heavy on the vine,
with honeysuckle, twist and twine.
The cool grass tickles naked feet
while weaned lambs in the distance bleat,
and find some shelter from the heat
'neath leafy canopy retreat.
The gentle wind so jaunt'ly plays
and tousles copper hair ablaze
like furious dancing autumn rays
from Mabon's fiery upraise.
Through rustling leaves the sunbeams glint,
I catch the balm of sage and mint,
and every herb and floral scent
blown to me by the wind's dissent.
Breathing deep olfactory prose
until the old red rooster crows
waking me from my repose
and from beneath the tree, I rose.
When as I rose, a red leaf fell,
wisping down its last farewell;
a changing season to foretell;
the coming bounty doth compel.
Cicadas loudly buzz along
and sing their end of summer song,
o'er by the thorny brambles throng;
unto the prairie they belong.
By and by, I turned my mind
back to the farm and daily grind,
collecting eggs where I can find;
inside the henhouse, else behind.
The hens put up a bitter fuss
with feathers flying from the truss,
so I let out an angry cuss.
Still, they obliged; allowed me thus.
Upon it all, I took my leave,
finished with my blast and thieve
much to the angry birds' aggrieve;
giving them a day's reprieve.
Outside the coop, behind the fence,
my greedy boar approached me whence,
grunting for his recompense,
and so two eggs I offered thence.
Then on, as careful as I might
into the farmhouse kitchen white,
delivered up the shelled delight
to feed the morrow's appetite.
Upon the ending of this chore,
I happened back outside once more,
to watch the day fade into lore,
and Luna make her grand encore.
-----------------------------------------------
A NOTE FROM MALCOLM
My advice is free, and time’s not billable
Try speaking French and I will soon know
Don’t claim a local or a provincial accent
It really does not sound as if heaven-sent
Nor a comment heard such as il fait beau
As the accent is always on the last syllable
As a teacher, these things do really matter
One must develop that Gallic look as well
Sometimes that simple shrug just says it all
From Southern Pyrenees up North to Gaul
Whether from Paris or le Midi, one can tell
In some regions, the vowels do sound fatter
So, let us practice the deep grunting sounds
And don’t forget all those hand gestures too
But accents can apply to letters when written
Cedillas, acute or grave never seen in Britain
Where just the plain and simple words will do
Whilst pretty perfume accents do the rounds
In towns where Basic fantasy makes a frown
Nature has turned Completely upside down.
And day tours emigrate to the Cambrian shore
Onboard, the rivers boats from Windermere
moving between hills and trees, miles from home
where the boughs of orchard greens are overgrown.
From distance views are the dreams first caught,
But by wagon roads are the scenic marvels wrought.
Steep is the pass across from Eskdale to Hardknott.
The architect must create when the odds are Great.
And stand resolute by luck, for success, failure, or fate
Keep the faith Lyvennet flows alone to catch the bait.
In Crake valley the vision of dreams is made known
On Penrith curb they drove all the way back home.
from the distillation realm, everything looks foreign,
Solemn and determined, invoke quiet a snarling spell
Being the adventurer rage driving furiously out of hell,
With Lakeland Muse, ambush by cars on top of a hill.
Framed flaws lay beneath the religious camouflage
Shadows meandering when winding lanes diverge,
An envious world moonlight enriched into a mirage.
Out from the woods, alpacas and feral cats emerge.
Pale and pickled at the grunting grumbling core.
In lush Whitehaven vale oblivious of a full-scale war
Continued tours like silhouette building dunes
In embroidery gardens, beautiful flowers bloom.
Bumblebees, wasps, and flies have wooed and won,
The old man ‘Lakeland’, seated on its penitent throne
Crocked steam from Ulverston rises on the pond.
Another day meets the Crinkle Craggs of Lakeland.
no one sleeps tonight
we up and be jammin
we be jammin
we gone dance the night away
hear what I say
we gonna party all night
we be dancing and grinding
tell your freinds bout this jambouisri
we gonna do the
dickie dew woop
shingle dindle dippy dew
and foo chi gruntier
and the stumble dippy too
we be dancing
dancing
all night long
ddon't get jealous
my party's better than yours
we funning
ya'll dumb and
my stuff tastier than yours
ya'll gonna be fightin
while we be grunting
and making love
ya'll crazy
I mean real crazy
ya'll jealous that
our party is better than yours.
aint nobody in love with
nobody here
we having a jamba lamba good time!
The humidity was doing a good job of keeping pace with the temperature. Until around 10 AM when the thermometer pushed its way past 100. That’s when 176 frightened kids and a few old hippies staggered out of the crowded cattle trucks. “Alright you maggots, RUN,” voices screamed from beneath wide brimmed Smokey Bear hats. So, we ran…and ran, duffle bags slung over our shoulders. Hours passed before we finally came to attention under the blistering Missouri sun. All the while, the bears circled. Sniffing the air and grunting. “Don’t show them any fear,” one of the old hippies whispered, “they pray on the weak.”
Like nature intends
Survival of the fittest
Do not show weakness
Often I wonder, is it worth it
Opening my eyes to blurred red numbers each morning,
broken lines of early hour countings,
as gloomed darkness peers through streaked windows
and dusty mini blinds create silent wooden horizons
Groaning, upright now on the edge of the mattress…stretching,
rubbing my face to remove the remnants of last night,
shoving aside the warmth of my faded flannel blanket,
then finding a cold floor giggling at the touch of my naked feet
I recall the dream, my last moments of sleep…weird…real feeling
Aerosmith, a souvenir stand in Wildwood and an iPad
Sketchy but still there (and I wish I were too)
Don’t ask….
I can hear my dogs grunting at the foot of bed
(Probably chasing raccoons in their heads)
What a life, eating, sleeping, no need for love (in that sense),
just a nice pat on the head every once in a while satisfies
Sometimes I guess that is all it takes, all we can hope for…
Still sitting here, yawning…thinking…
Why do I do this each day, every day, the same routine,
the deepest rut, like tire tracks in fresh mud, straight, never ending…
Then, as the tiniest glint of sunlight sifts the tenebrous room
I think of you…my happiness, my everyday purpose and it all becomes clear
Smiling now, I stand and greet this brand new beautiful day…wide awake
Often I wonder, is it worth it...and then I wonder why I wonder
Good morning Soupers
The way the old lay,
weak, it's difficult to make out the words they say,
sometimes they speak nonsense and mumble away,
but somedays they are okay,
acting more like themselves from back in the day,
yet still with less than they once had,
and for them the best days have turned sad.
This is how I see hip hop now,
unrecognisable in it's current appearance,
transforming with age but yet somehow,
a small few prevent its total disappearance.
The lesser artist of yesteryears old skool,
would rule today over the best artists of the new school,
'cus todays artists are refused by all,
their rubbish has become the usual,
and rubbish is being kind, it's ear abuse and awful.
Even if the bar went up to high,
there is no excuse for the lack of good songs they provide,
I'd long for a new Red and Meth to buy,
and I don't care for the Eminem vs 2Pac divide,
I listen to both 'cus otherwise I'd be denied.
Rappers used to open the hole in their face,
they didn't sound like their jaw was tied by a brace,
you could hear the words regardless of the pace,
they never used languages found in outer space.
Today it's a disgrace, stumbling along in Arabic,
and grunting like some sort of dying asthmatic,
there's no talent here just a bunch of spastics,
and it's tragic how the whole song stack lacks a classic.
Rap used to be about verbal accounts,
rap was about the way words were pronounced,
then out pounced murmuring sounds of toddler playgrounds
and this bulls.... mumble was found.
Using commercial beats made to tap feet,
so you don't hear the retard trying to speak,
shouting out in anger all big and bad,
which I get 'cus if I couldn't talk I'd be mad.
Old skool rappers on crack,
have verbal skills that new school rappers lack.
This mumble is pitifully weak at the peak,
dipsticks with dick lipstick forging a beat.
So has hip hop died, hmmm
not yet, but it seems destined in time.
Prescribed blood tests
present no qualms,
unlikely nothing askew i.e.
ticking time bombs
nor prone to catastrophization,
albeit anticipatory anxiety
plus demeanor of poetically titled
medical practitioner allays, calms
alleviates agitation exhibited
by dad's and/or mom's
panic minimizes si? no sweaty palms,
nonetheless precautionary measure taken
thumbing apostle Matthew psalms
ayee feel grateful relatively
clean bill of health.
Nine thirty morning
appointment earlier today
September tenth two
thousand nineteen no way
found yours truly bright
tailed, and bush shay
eyed, cuz mine circadian rhythm
(reed sleepiness), I cannot betray,
yet medical plight concerning
bowel movement analogous to clay
stool pigeons ever ray
now and again plague me: hay
4 four at aye
oh elle dot com, alias math they
you scott harris happy as jay
bird for personable rapport
she, said practitioner did display
offering friendly feedback
proactive measures to avoid
finding mine psyche
analogously scrambled (think) souffle
even absent such agreeable
pharmacological medications keep at bay
panic stricken state
seeding additional gray
hairs (matter of fact
synthesized prescription -
pills selective serotonin reuptake inhibitors)
only necessitate small copay
Medicare bonafide dogsend
whereby nurse practitioner equal
however much she doth weigh,
in salt, though an oft worn cliché
feather in her cap coup d'état
personable, laudable, hospitable...
winning accolades regarding
humbleness and modest stay
expertise within her craft hoop fillet
staving off general mills concerns
reason I wrote rhyme, eh somewhat passé
even Mister Ed would neigh say
so with his horse sense to stirrup
unbridled jollity - me hoof finds rein
ching words cathartic je ne sais quois
experimenting with this, that,
or t'other typed out array,
perhaps hashtagged as tripe courtesy quay
zee poor ah shunned poet fray
ming tropes distinguished (ha)
even if garnering no pay
English language I play
juxtaposing incongruities
to tease out reactions probably lay
build rickety lettered edifices
manuscripts best sentenced to sauté
within steaming vat
fed as swill to petsmart hogs
grunting as they fertilize mulch greenway.