Long Gully Poems
Long Gully Poems. Below are the most popular long Gully by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Gully poems by poem length and keyword.
Without Knowing Your Gender...,
(nonetheless ex post facto still flattered)
Bhutan names defy affiliating,
determining, identifying... gender,
and what a faux pas this dada admits,
when a blessed high school
student did league gully tender
benighted, gifted, ordained yours truly
with sobriquet "Guru"
alluded to in previous poem, render
ring this foolish hearty good fella (me)
falling prey to embarrassing situation,
(I did misrender
as would be expected
from this crash test dummy,
who dented his psychological fender),
vis virtual mind bender,
when an initial presumption
smarted Matthew Scott as offender,
asper online youth NO pretender
by him, aye mean the sender
communicated his admiration,
adoration, adulation for this big spender
of sincerity, viz singular poetic magi - (ha)
made presumption that
unknown messenger slender,
and female, and
upon enclosing appender
referencing person as "lovely princess"
did respondent clarify finding deface
of zee poet here -
logic chops went thru blender
as if slapped by a suspender
experiencing irrevocable shame
as though a contender
attempting to guide false supposition
playfully mistaking sexual
identity of male sender,
he (young kneeler)
bowed as winning scoring goaltender
down as mine professed
metrical feet, he who acquiesced
non Asian minor, friender
NOT seeking moneylender,
nor mistook my heart of gold),
mine apology I did obligingly surrender
and possibly chuckled to himself,
asper an uproarious hellbender
whereat my countenance turned
fifty plus shades of lavender.
Did you like it ?
I, liked it all ! Even the, rust in my blood,
and the last grains, bottlenecking to flood,
downward ;escaping! narrowed slow timed
earth bell, rings distant closer time chimed.
I liked it all ! every fall, each rise its beat,
Pangs of thirst, bad ideas one way streets
taken for granted ! Many boats set sail
without me on board, the bow was frail.
I liked it all ! Let downs, its waiting wasted
and the cracks in the heart salt tears tasted
that elusive youth, beyond walled mirrors
Crucibled parents,snipped sharp scissors.
I liked it all ! Dusty jars brim full of unused ideas
trusted friends in masks, with sharp spears
pointless classrooms with very slow gloom
that endless voice , of brimstone and doom.
I liked it all ! Stormy days,pained a mislaid gaze
fumbling amongst buttons, unzipped skin to amaze,
the cobbled ale ; stumble legged, aspirin and bucket
words sometimes failed, Oh never again ! Fu it.
I liked it all ! The suited best man, a ring
worthless metal, head in the shed to bring,
set free, work has vaccated this place
up the damp endless gully, ah a new face!
I like it all ! Each endless kiss lost by taste,
how many books? Could we fill in haste,
before that journey starts down that hill,
replaced by newborns, with same time to kill?
I liked it all! Sometimes.
I see the expanse now,
I see the expense now,
How we expand now,
The sun never sets on Empire,
Pitted, packed dry-cake gully
Sere, stolid waiting the return
Of precipitation
The dearth of rain
Brings Earth her pain
until
The dead creeks rejuvenation,
There’s anticipation of CROAKS, HUMS,
TWEETS, CHIRPS,
That never come,
Reign in your expectations
of
Rain, a bringer of Nature’s exaltations,
But all I see is dry death,
little animals hunt for oil,
there’s parched soil,
that cracks and crunches,
from rock to metal back to rust,
silt motes form massive walls of dust,
As brawling winds blow squalls,
I see the future,
My eyes set fire to it all
There was a cute witch with a heart of gold.
She always wanted to please which never got old.
She was pretty and smart. A happy child too.
When she was around no one was blue.
If zombies or goblins or mummies were about.
They minded their manners, were certainly no lout.
Because she had made friends of all of them in the gully.
They knew better to tease, torment or bully.
She was an upstander. She stood up and asked people to stop
If they tried to be mean to anybody, she made them drop.
They would have to do a thousand pushups and apologize.
That’s a lot, and they had to do it before the next sunrise.
So the ones who did not get it for a while were awfully thin.
They had to do those pushups again and again.
But the ones who understood used words of polite.
At least until upstander cute witch was way out of sight.
His name was legend, written in lore,
Riding his bike like no human should.
He’d vault and swerve, plunge and dance,
Leap frogging my entire childhood.
He could sprint from a stop, faster than fast,
Past everyone else on the road.
Till he came to the top of the sharpest ridged gully,
That’s where he eventually slowed.
He slowed not to be careful, or safe or guarded,
Or because of the exhausting conquest.
But rather so he could balance on one spindly wheel,
All along the sharpest edged crest.
He’d be there for hours, any type of day,
Be it hot or cold, rain, ice, or smog.
Until, almost crippled, his bike and him one,
He rode his way home again, alone in the fog.
This night he came to the dark murky road, just out from home,
He peered left but didn’t look right.
Now he’s the ghost on a bike, wistfully riding the streets of this town,
Riding silently every night.
. for public domain
(after listening to Wolfmother Vagabond, rhythm lifted without permission)
The wind blows down the railroad track,
it blows on down the road.
The creek flows down the gully out back,
to where I never knowed.
I'm just sittin' on my own porch swing,
sippin' wine.
I'm just grinnin' on my old porch swing,
feelin' fine.
I'm just sinnin' on the old porch swing,
passin' time.
I got my house, I got my dog,
I got my blue suede shoes.
Pitless cherry in a cherry pie,
no cause to light my fuse.
I'm just sittin' on my own porch swing,
sippin' wine.
I'm just grinnin' on my old porch swing,
feelin' fine.
I'm just sinnin' on the old porch swing,
passin' time.
The sun is way up in the sky,
the moon is up there too.
and if you've got a mind for fun,
I singin' this with you.
We're just sittin' on an own porch swing,
sippin' wine.
We're just grinnin' on an old porch swing,
feelin' fine.
We're just sinnin' on an old porch swing,
passin' time.
Peach-pinched beachcombers
enter the scene
with sugary-sun splashes,
darkened sunglasses.
Beautiful Bahamas
with pink sand beaches
and the gully wash
that ebbs and flows, sweetens
her veins with serendipitous warmth,
tantalizes his bushwacker brain.
Foraminifera of her cheeks,
her wet towel beneath.
Horseshoe bay smiles,
waves them in
with its turquoise siren-sea and
blushing granules.
Bahama mama runs
as if she’s a Bay Watch babe.
To the one who embraces
her intoxicating hand,
she is the embodiment
of a precious shell in his palm.
Does he feel the sun…
smell the salty air?
He feels the heat indeed,
tastes the salty air she breathes —
She is the Bahamas to him.
He crashes the island
of her flowery towel.
His lips envelope
his piña colada.
9/22/2020
THE EYE of I
What is life? What is love?
The eye of I took it in…
The material rolling sweeps highs and lows--valleys cuts, grooves, gullies and gorges eye engorge crevices of porphyry
heat flies from the ravines
places the eye cannot see but the soul can visit-- living matter,
infused with tissue thoughts generated externally electrified internally
the sweat that beaded on the brow drips and spatters, absorbs the entity under
What is the breathing open petal life… radiating respiring
One throttle to quell that respiration, bright lightening beauty gently fusing into glow?
Brightening as I faster
Turbine-whistle I your master
beating, spewing, thrusting, ignition transference… body grue and stifles?… Gone
She stiffens the radiance of the face pale, milky, alabaster, clammy pore-less beams the lips and cheeks rubescent now. Smoothes, and transition into deep hues of blues, violent violets, ebony black. Hardens, stiffens stone then softens? as alabaster
Deterioration, matter, entropy all so naturally
Squall has past--the quondam respiring takes long respite..
The eye of I took it in…The material rolling sweeps highs and lows, valleys, cuts, grooves, gully and gorge I engorge crevices of porphyry
heat flies from the ravines folded as petals from
places the eye cannot see but the soul can visit
of living matter, infused with tissue thoughts generated externally electrified internally
The sweat that beaded on the brow drips and spatters, absorbs the entity under lies the breathing open petal life… radiating, respiring?
The fingers trace and fall in place the Etowah infused with breath
The sweat sinks in, absorption energy transfers electricity thoughts
Cabachon crescendos!
All the while the living, beating, breathing, entity flutters, shutters, smiles.
I wake up at five each morning, I hear cock a doodle doo
my stomach’s gurgling but I won’t eat until I'm through;
as the horses need feeding on hay and crunchy carrot,
and I must give cuttlefish to Polly our screeching parrot
Pink piglets slurp as they suck milk from the sow,
The young calves are all mooing at Daisy the cow
Pitter patter raindrops fall, perhaps I will get wet
when I take my yelping pup to be neutered by the vet
I climb onto the tractor, the cold engine splutters as it starts,
alas I hear the woosh from the sheepdog as he farts.
Tim always travels with me to bark at all the sheep -
rounding up the bleating lambs, he truly earns his keep
Water gurgles in the gully as the tractor speeds along,
and the dawn chorus chirrups, I adore their morning song.
In the meadow bees are buzzing on the autumn breeze,
Ah ah ah atishoo, the golden pollen made me sneeze
When I’ve done my chores , bacon rashers sizzle in the pan,
Bess the cat purrs loudly as I open her ‘Whiskas’ can,
Then we’ll snuggle up in front of the crackling log fire,
soon I will be snoring, as forty winks I now require.
Onomatopoeia Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Emile Pinet
10/23/21
Bully me you, I exemplified archetypal scapegoat
Even as old curmudgeon, aye pucker
and raspily suction toothless mouth
drawing reminiscent guffaws affecting
attempt impersonating plumber
(think unclogging toilet)
please support your local bummer
back in the day one
long haired pencil neck geeks palled
around with another
hirsute nerd - Roger Kummerer,
(who both of us graduated Methacton
High School class of 1977),
and yours truly readily
admitting, alluding, and attesting
without shadow of doubt
representing the dumber
than rocks of said beastie boys
bandits, donning particolored pachyderm
gabardine garb getup trumpeting,
especially as Mummer
on each New Year's Day
with bare ass tuchus
excellently imitating courtesy said orifice
(as chief motormouth) sound
of combo motorboat hummer.
Ah... the joys of amazingly aging gracefully
happily recalling never being beat into pulp dully
imagining dimming sense and sensibility
before (appearing gratefully dead)
lifeless body dumped into gully
nonetheless all the while fully
maintaining conscious, and forcefully
summoning forth latent powers gleefully
choking living daylights masterfully
delivering just desserts upon Tom Viglione,
whose plaintive laments truthfully
resonate as blessed music
to ears unaccustomed hearing pitifully
sounding long overdue comeuppance
forever disbelieving wrongfully
perpetrated injustice witnessed impossible mission
fueling an ordinarily meek lad
only in his dreams, he envisions zestfully.
Pugnacious thuggish hooligans... although
decades long since elapsed, whereby hoodlums
jockeyed to rain one after another verbal blow
threatening introverted diminutive boy
who, no surprise did eventually,
albeit (stuntedly) grow
(as an aside resembled anorexic
Santa Claus ho... ho... ho...)
still wracked, impacted, affected...,
this punster, he haint Joe
King, but upholds valuable humor less or mo'
feebly, lamely, and quirkily aspires toward po'
whit tree linkedin with infusing,
(no matter ex post facto)
freeing mine unsung hero.