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.
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
Sudan 1993 and an ugly famine reaps its prey
malnourished bodies make it difficult to believe
that women were created from the rib of men
it is the most vulnerable who carry the weight
if you pardon the cynical pun on the grotesque
the lens is open and a vulture remains on guard
carrion in the making seems to die on the right
side of the frame and the wrong side of history
a little bird like face hands buried in minute hands
a grunting beak not afar as if smacking hungry lips
vultures have a serious problem with their reputation
but this particular images reaches down much further
into gut wrenching emotion of insatiable repulsion
for the record it is not the grim raptor who was ringed
but the little girl who wears a UN feeding station band
in all honesty the predator is not as close as it seems
a nearby manure heap serves its overfed companions
but the photo fails to escape the onlooker’s discomfort
however they wish it would fly away on prayer or wings
one vulture a Pulitzer Prize and millions of birdwatchers
although Kevin Carter the award winning photojournalist
followed all rules and was forbidden to touch anybody
for fear of spread of disease like cholera or meningitis
he was pilloried for only taking the shot and despairing
instead of well what exactly should the bird have told him
we are not privy to the fate of the iconic avian marauder
do not know what we would have done in such situation
maybe niggling bird song made us contribute to charity
but the other protagonist died in a red pickup truck with a
hosepipe and the girl’s parents told the press she’d survived
11th July 2020
Shocks like elastic repeated.
The globs of them.
Grunting feelings with packaged up tears.
I could have done more relaxation but it feels uncanny.
Like a zipper in my veins.
Cold shocking sensations, clapping hands and amazing tricks.
Drastic measures feel like cinnamon in my nose.
And a breeze of lost air.
The thing about panicking is that…
It’s a feeling as groaning as spaghetti for the tenth time this week.
And it’s always still this weakness.
I wish that the afternoon air was less grumbling.
There’s a skeleton shooting harpoons into my muscles.
And that’s not the last trick he has for me.
Covered Dishes
1
The password is… password, shhh...
Try to remember if possible,
this sure-fire way of getting through the door;
Entering indeed, as with all lithesome ladies,
and their dithering dogs, after
entreating the big dude at the entrance gate,
with licorice sticks and cauliflower juice on ice,
and leaning over long enough to show off the planets,
those spinning orbs of a mathematical universe,
now turning madly and centrifugally, sucking
out the eyes of the pleading fools,
dressed in rage, and wont to feel the ancient eclipses,
those silent but grunting interludes unseen,
all dressed in satin boredom, all flummoxed
as with clowns, dressed in neon failure,
who now offer smiles and winking winces,
to the sad-eyed pedestrians, and
the red-lipped ladies with the wide-brimmed hats,
out to tease with nylon exposures,
around the bleakly lighted doorways
to dark entrances, without eyes to feel.
You were sitting there with legs crossed,
a cocktail dangling from your frozen fingertips,
like a fainted ballerina in the splitting moonlight.
In front of you, on the table, covered dishes
covered tureens, with surprise taste delights simmering,
shouting out in mute languages of the multitudes:
What is under the lid of this blue dish?
What is beneath the cover of this steaming tureen?
I turned to see other dishes and other culinary settings,
and instead, I saw you among the bon bons
and the flaming surrendering soufflé.
You wore that same translucent skirt with
the lightning stripes and the chiffon protestations,
and as you rose from your chair with howling legs,
there was no hell and brimstone in what I saw.
Then as with a silent hungry leopard,
setting exotic eyes on my stilled soul and quivering body,
you took my hand into yours, as easily as one might,
and with straight-staring certitude, we politely exited
from this quiet pedestrian grille,
this obscure café under the yawning stars,
hidden behind festooning flowers,
draped on hungry trellises,
for the hopelessly outraged.
A born jealous, envious and bitter bear,
Always felt sad on other billionaire –
Let it be a friend or foe, he not spare
Anyone from criticism hid or bare.
Grunting against his Deity to repair
His destiny which denied to prepare
Him for future fight fair or unfair.
Hindi was domain. Philosophical air
Could not give him any debonair.
Private or public, beggar or millionaire
Nobody liked him for his crooked nature.
I helped in his need – wood or metal ware
Which he responded unwillingly there.
But I still did not leave him I swear.
Fox is this jealous mind with scare
Of other’s success as his is rare.
Still wish he be successful hare
Who nibs green grass with glare.
Tiptoe the finest, fine twine, needle-eyed thread
and a glitzy sequined clasp, tiny
tweezer-tie it finger-tip fast with a nuanced knot -
my, my, the pedantic perfection of the master jeweller.
I have the servile subtlety of thick thumbs,
all clumbsy carpals, my fudging finesse
better suited to a beanie'd stevedore, loud lugging
heavy-haired harbour rope to ship-secure
a brutish lump in the line.
Tongue tied up, spun on my own silver yarn
like a crystal jeweller, giddy with champagne giggles,
dizzy on a spinning chandelier high strung from the pressed ceiling.
Oh non, pas moi! Mine is more an oiled elegance,
heavy handed, ham-fisted like a scabby wharf rat,
chased and unchaste.
Dextrous in the strangest ways -
gutsy and glamourous,
ours is a nuanced life of grunting grime
with the briefest flashes of bedazzled dance.
The way he hobbles make you wince
His eyes tearing up with each lurch forward
As he grinds out his daily two-block marathon
There he goes now, the luckiest man on Earth
Gingerly, deliberately, carefully -- grunting away
He labors up the five steps to his front door
Pausing at the top to congratulate himself -- Oy!
There he stands, the luckiest man on Earth
Crossing the threshold, his faithful wife greets him
Cheerfully, asking how it went today and how he felt
"Never better, my darling!" the perspiration-tinged reply
Another blue-ribbbon day for the luckiest man on Earth
If It Bleeds After Scratching It
If it bleeds after scratching it, then you went too far.
I see a parade of dead people walking by me in this old dream.
They are eating bananas and I recognize their faces as friends,
I hear their familiar voices, and I wish I can talk to them again.
Then, as if a switch is flipped they can speak through the veil.
They tell me of fantastic sights to behold after dying from earth.
If it cries in pain after stabbing it, then you went too far.
I see dead girls from my past walking by me in another dream.
They are naked on the floor in the back room darkness.
I hear the familiar music of Copland and Gershwin on a record player.
I see young bodies squirming in a vague grunting candlelight.
They move by me like floating temple dancers in the moonlight.
If it says nothing after screaming at it, then you went too far.
I see dead friends huddled on a sofa inside my old childhood house.
They are sitting like wooden statues listening to my mother play the organ.
My mother is pressing the pedals barefooted as she fingers the Anniversary Waltz,
And my dead friends clap as she looks at everyone for approval as she plays;
The ghost in the basement loves to waltz, and I can hear him dancing down there.
Also known as a furze-pig, urchin or hedgepig
Your collective name is an array or prickle – how apt!
To me you are one of the cutest animals in the land
Born blind but soon you open beady black eyes
Your little snout pokes out and helps you forage
You love to eat worms, caterpillars and snails
Sometimes a tasty frog, baby bird or eggs
Your body is covered in defensive prickly spines
These are prone to fleas, oh that would make me itch!
Curling into a ball at the first sign of danger
Badgers, foxes and owls are your main predators
How I love the autumn, I find you nestled in the hedgerows
You sleep until you come out to play at night
Sometimes I wish I was like you and could hibernate
Sleep though the cold dull dreary dark winter days
You communicate by squealing, grunting and snuffling …
(I wonder… are all hedgehogs male!)
Sadly you are not very adept at crossing the road
I often see you as road kill and that makes me sad
09~29~14
Contest: Animal Poem
Sponsor: Regina Riddle
~awarded 3rd Place ~
seems like ole man winter
aint finished doing business
whereat get dem self up
in fine fetters and cuss
madly jabbing, gesticulating,
and damning e pluribus
conveniently, deliberately,
and selectively forgetting unum
until...cupboards bare wren, emergency food stash
mice eaten, and refrigerator empty
and there you stand with a growling tum
hmm...perhaps hastening to the wine cellar
scrambling for a jug of rum
which ample downing might be
a panacea to hibernate,
and deeply slum
burr until dawg days of summer,
when fruit trees bursting,
and being alive feels plum
ripe with nary a worry in the world,
oh...mebbe best to telephone mum
(real name Chrys Anthem),
and share cornucopia
as life for thee goes hum
ming along swimmingly
and haint nuttin tuff heal glum
about, now take another sip
and breathe in from
smorgasbord mother nature didst spread
vibrant flora and fauna
sights and sounds rhythmically,
poetically, and hypnotically drum,
where the prevailing mood
finds one markedly chum
me scales fall from ones's eyes,
a former bummed out skool of hard knocks alum,
now just kick back and become seduced
while listening to chic chick hens roost
scampering, grunting,
and buzzing capers moost
pleasant since renaissance
of spring finally loosed.