Long Gunny Poems
Long Gunny Poems. Below are the most popular long Gunny by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Gunny poems by poem length and keyword.
BURLAP and SATIN
Texture fine, woven design
Like harden tree sap
Rough is the burlap!!!
That's at my finger tips
Smooth is soft the satin as silk
The dress rapped around her waist
Burlap and satin
Give me such touch my reactions
Hard rough the silken liner
Smooth is the burlap binder???
Coarse touch soft brush
Weave me, cling to me of skin
Jute plant fibers touch
Burlap and satin
Just rough on the skin
May combine me with vegetable fibres
Wall hangings made of burlap rough to my eyes
Fibers to make rope, nets
Coarse canvas woven from jute, hemp
Burlap and satin
Browned fiber burlap, used especially for sacking
Sackcloth, gunny, canvas, hessian
Dress making and furnishing burlaps a burlap shirt
Fabric burlap Flowers nation
Can be a rose or carnation
Or woven even turned into a shirt Even seen them as a skirt
For what it's worth, smooth and rough
Burlap and satin
Matters not touch me in the morning
Also together burlap and satin so adorning
Fabric flower bouquet
A smooth, glossy fabric
Satin of silk, produced by a weave
In which this the threads
Burlap and satin
The warp caught and looped by weft cross stitch
At certain intervals a blue satin dress smooth like satin
Oh, also fabric flowers to the bouquet
Satin is a weaved that has glossy surface and dull back action
The satin weave is four or more no harm
Fill weft yarns floats over warp yarn
Four warp yarns floating over a single weft
a luxurious satin look For what it's worth smooth and rough
Burlap and satin
3/24/18 ©2018
For Contest: Burlap and Satin
Sponsored by: Anthony Slausen
Burlap and satin went to the dance
It was held at the old Fisher Barn
Burlap wore a fine Gunny sack
Adorned with a drawstring of yarn
Satin sported a shimmery weave
Trimmed with buttons of gold
The glossy attire was flawless
And was quite a sight to behold
Burlap took satin by the hand
And together they started to dance
When a stray strand of jute, caught satin’s suit
Burlap did not stand a chance.
Apologies followed
But the damage was done
Satins glossy ensemble
Had a permanent run.
Their dance quickly ended
Burlap was not Satins ilk
Burlap tangoed with Hemp
Satin went home with silk.
The moral of the story
And a material fact
Not all fabrics blend
Despite how they act
3/21/2018
With the hot summer sun beating down,
leaving blisters on our necks and back.
Walking through those swift murky currents,
just you‘n me, and a gunny sack.
Dipping our heads below the surface,
searching for a fish’s hidden den.
With nimble fingers probing into holes,
hoping to find the catfish within.
Perhaps a green and slick-skinned bullhead,
maybe a flathead or channel cat.
Can't waste any time on carp or drum,
or some other junky fish like that.
One hand slowly slides into the hole,
until it latches on to something.
You hope it's a fish and nothing else,
that might decide to bite, claw, or sting.
I know all about them noodling tales,
and that how a few of them are right.
Like them snapping turtles so dern big,
could take my hand off with just one bite.
Or them spear nosed alligator gars,
with needle teeth all along their snout.
Or fish nearly as long as a man,
that can drown you without any doubt.
While poking around under some rocks,
just might be where a cotton mouth hides.
So you never go noodlin’ alone,
always have a good friend by your side.
Heard ‘bout a boy crawled into a hole,
to put his rope through a fish's gill.
They found his head two miles down the creek,
and they’re looking for his body still.
If it sounds a little dangerous,
on that I certainly will confirm.
But you know them big grandaddy fish,
ain't gonna bite on no itty-bitty worm.
There are many kinds of wars some make you die some make you cry
when your far away suffused in gunpowder, you learn to live and lie
A red letter day arrived, their baby was born blue, cold and stillborn
he sat in the bunker away from atomic blasts grief soaked and forlorn
Jim walked in and released his gunny sack " dam the war " what you got
stoic and in shock he wheezed, coughed took a drag of cigarette, wot?
There are many kinds of wars, some make you die some make you cry
today was not a day for tears, with a mendacious smile he prayed to die .
July 20, 2022
Sponsor Faraz Ajmal
Contest Name Tears of a Valiant Soldier
His day began with "Reveille" blaring from within the bowels of the ship.
Sergeants yelled, "Up and at 'em lads! We're takin' a little trip!"
He wearily arose from his bunk to don the accoutrements of war.
He'd survived Guadalcanal, now he faced Iwo Jima's fearsome shore.
They fed him steak and eggs - rookies joked that it may be their final meal.
But the battle-weary Marine was very grim - to him it seemed so surreal.
The chaplain gathered them around and offered a fervent prayer,
Pleading for God's protection and committing them to His care.
The grizzled old "Gunny" yelled, "First platoon over the side!"
"Down those lovely cargo nets, boys! Semper Fi!" he cried!
Bobbing Higgins boats waited below to take him to that perilous strand.
The engines roared as the boat wallowed and rolled t'ward that ebon sand!
He hunkered down with the others, his helmet beating upon his nose.
Others used their helmets to receive bits of breakfast as the boat sank and rose!
Adding to the din of battle so familiar to his ears were shells flying overhead.
As his boat with its precious cargo neared the beach it was hit by zinging lead!
The boat struck a coral reef so they had to wade in water up to their hips.
He struggled with his heavy pack and rifle with a prayer upon his lips.
Brave men fell under withering fire that day as they tried to force a breach.
Brave men forever lost their innocence that day on that hallowed beach!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
(© All Rights Reserved)
Alas, we've elected bozos on both sides to again guide the nation!
(Some folks are sobbing in their ale, others are filled with jubilation!)
To rid this great nation of such knaves, here is what I would propose:
Elect retired noncoms who are well qualified to lead, heaven knows!
Noncoms are known for their integrity and by the way, lead from the front!
They don't take shhhtuff from anyone and are known to be rather blunt!
There should be a crusty Master Chief to head the Navy overseeing the fleet,
And a Marine Gunny Sergeant should occupy every congressional seat!
A Staff Sergeant who's been in the trenches should be the Secretary of Defense.
Chief Master Sergeants qualify for the oval office (Obama, take no offense!)
Sergeants First Class would eminently qualify for the Secretary of Labor.
They'd put deadbeats to work so as not to mooch off their neighbor!
There's a horde of Navy Petty Officers who'd qualify for Treasury Secretary,
Who've faithfully paid their taxes unlike some Yale czars to the contrary!
There's a brigade of Sergeants Major who'd excel as the Secretary of State,
Who'd tell other nations where to go if they didn't deal with us straight!
Master and Technical Sergeants are well qualified to occupy a governor's chair.
Their prime concern is the welfare of folks, not just building castles in the air!
Retired Noncoms are a special breed who believe in and uphold the Constitution!
Patriots who'd oust the current clowns, some of whom qualify for a mental institution!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
© All Rights Reserved
What, in your own mind, you do think you lack,
Within thy sensational loneliness--
Truly energize luck and got your back,
To promote thy risk in times, coziness.
Then each and every of your lovely fear,
Creates the globe with an enormous home.
Surely, of a great deal, becomes so dear
A lorry pen drives where shining hearts roam...
May blank pages cease not-- thy gunny bag;
Supplying the pride of your heart with clues,
Pen punches so hard to raise the world's flag.
To place pleasing mags, setting minds amuse.
Your day of the year is of heritage;
Deifying your grace and works, great homage.
TORN SOJOURN
The day was so sunny,
with my red nose runny
I went alone running out,
I didn’t have any doubt
before I could go very far
mother would be aware.
She quickly tracked me,
I swiftly hid behind a tree
for my mid-day sojourn,
in sad shreds it was torn
as she saw my shadow
on the outhouse window.
There I got promptly caught
sooner than I had thought.
She came to sternly stand,
tightly held my yielded hand,
dragged me inside the house
before I could even grouse.
She put me in a coarse gunny,
filled my mouth with hot honey.
December 27, 2018
Contest : BUNNY JUMP
Sponsored by : Caren Krutsinger
Working behind the counter of a bookstore I have a chance to look…
to browse among our shelves and find the oldest books
I love the feel of them in my hands, to gently turn their pages and what’s more
I like to think about the paths these books have taken
before coming to rest here inside our store.
The words written on its pages tell a story…that’s well known
but the book has also made a journey and has a story of its own.
The story within the pages of the book is repeated each time the book is sold
but the story about the book itself…forever remains untold..
I recently came upon a book whose story is not yet through…
a tiny pocket-sized book that was given to a soldier in World War II.
(It’s interesting to note since they were small enough fit in pockets and gunny sacks…
these books helped launch the acceptance…and popularity of books in paperback)
It was a little weathered…its pages yellow and tattered by time
and I had to wonder how…from the hands of a soldier in the war
did it find its way to mine.
Did this soldier see much action…was he injured…did he make it out alive?
In the horrors of a war…did this little book help him to survive?
How much time did it spend in Europe?
Was its journey fast…or slow?
How did it find its way back across the ocean?
These are things I’ll never know.
For that is the dichotomy of a book is it not?…
On its pages it reveals its secrets for everyone to see
but the secrets of its journey shall remain a mystery.
So while I am it’s caretaker…
as I wonder about the adventures it has undergone…
I shall do my best to protect her
before she journeys on.
I thought I had gotten away from this part of my childhood,
but I turned at lettuce and ran into my cousin Linden
in the grocery store last Thursday.
He was delighted and dragged me back to their house
to observe more of their childish games.
Unlike in the movies where they pop a gunny sack over your head
and capture you,
Linden enticed me in a different whole-hearted way that made me
want to be dragged back into their drama.
With methodical guilt that appealed to
my niceness, and the reminder we are “blood” after all,
my notoriously personable
first cousin coaxed me back into his brother Tweedle-Man’s troubled waters.
I sat mesmerized, watching them do all the stuff they used to do,
when we were kids, only harder and meaner.
This used to be my circus, but I had long ago given up the three rings.
They are going on sixty, acting twenty-two, proud of their inflexibility,
and retention of youth.
I admire their eagerness to never change things
that have never in any way worked for them.
They valiantly hang on to a selfish life that has
never created a fulfillment for either of them, and has helped no one.
I resign myself to the socialized fact
That for a few more hours I will sit here,
pretending politeness. I do not exchange phone numbers or tell
them where I am living or with whom.
They do not care. It is all about them.
The ringmaster and the clown.
It would be an inconvenience for them to reach out again.
They are too inebriated and too high in other ways to find me again
Or even remember who I am or that I still exist.
I sit patiently a few more minutes.
Waiting for them to bring on the dancing bears.
Tweedle-man is wearing oversized glasses that light up. “Funny huh?”
Linden falls off the couch, laughing maniacally.
Just a few more minutes…
Written 3-17-2019
Contest: Bring on the Dancing Bears
Sponsor: John Lawless