Long Hanging Poems
Long Hanging Poems. Below are the most popular long Hanging by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Hanging poems by poem length and keyword.
this morning too, as usual,
Death hanging on the end of my life
asked, staring at me, “how have you been?”
he is not my favorite guy, i turn my face
at him and smile because he has a nasty temper; never know,
you may have to face some sort of unthinkable retaliation if you ignore him
when you walk for twenty four hours to exchange for today;
it’s nice even for a moment to be not conscious of Death
hanging onto the end of life’s rope;
after the fall of darkness
you unload your day’s burden and go to bed,
the length of rope shortened by another twenty four hours
while you were roaming the pathway leading to a simple dream,
today, too;
Death hanging on the end of my life
asked, staring at me, “how have you been?”
Get up MacD, smashed it again, get up and work it old man
Them cows are swallowing all the apples down
Cuc-a-dudal-du, I’m da Roostar, pump it, louder, yeah
Mrs D, girls on fleek, cluckada clucking, their bountiful asses
Not pushing out eggs, I’ll tell the bae’s their busted
Cuc-a-dudal-du, I’m da Roostar, pump it, louder, yeah
Don’t get me started bout Bungey
Stupidest dog, digs holes, thinks he’s a rabbit
Cuc-a-dudal-du, I’m da Roostar, pump it, louder yeah
Oi!, don’t leave me hanging here at the window
I’m puffed up, moonwalking, strutting my stuff
Cuc-a-dudal-du, I’m da Roostar, pump it, louder, yeah
Morning Mr, Mrs Mac you were asleep, while I was bringing it
What's that?, racket? suns bit extra this morning, yeah it's well lit
Cuc-a-dudal-du, I’m da Roostar, pump it, louder, yeah
Ya going down the Orchard? see the Chicks crib?, yesss lets burn the roof
Hmmm, the local café might sell apple flavoured lattes
Cuc-a-dudal-du, I’m da Roostar, pump it, louder, yeah
Entered in the Personification contest
Placed 6th
The Rooster, written 14/07/2019
Sponsor: Edward Ibeh
FALL, THE MOST BEAUTIFUL TIME OF THE YEAR. WHEN A BLUSHING
AUTUMN COMES TO PROVIDE US WITH APPLES HANGING OFF FLOURISHING TREES, IT IS TIME TO TAKE IN THEIR RUBIOUS COLORS. AS THEY HANG
FROM THEIR STURDY STEMS WE ADMIRE THEIR MULT-COLORED SHADES OF SUNBURNT YELLOW, GOLD AND BROWN.
INSIDE THE ORCHARD WE SOMETIMES FIND LADDERS, GREAT BIG BUSHELS,
STRAW AND LINEN HATS WORN ASKEW, AND SOMETIMES BIG GOLDEN SMILES THAT SAY, " I'M LIVING IT UP! "
WHAT BETTER PLACE TO BE THEN UNDERNEATH AN AUTUMN TREE, WHERE
EVERYTHING SHIMMERS WITH NATURAL LIGHT.
LEAVES DANCE AND SWIVEL BEFORE YOUR EYES, THEN SLOWLY LAND IN THE PALM OF YOUR OPEN HAND.
THE SUN GOES DOWN AND IT IS TIME TO KEEP SILENCE WITH THE BASKET
MOON AND THE CELESTIAL EVENING STARS.
SO GO AHEAD AND EASE INTO THIS SEASON WITH A QUIET SOUL.
HELP THE APPLES SAY GOODBYE TO SUMMER. AFTER ALL IT IS AUTUMN,
A TIME FOR FALLING LEAVES THAT SIGH.
A Christian family will wake up every morning,
Brush their teeth, get dressed and go to work,
And have a dog, a car and strive to be happy,
Regardless if they’re Greek or Aussie or Turk.
And a Muslim family will relax in their home,
Talk and laugh about what happened that day.
And they all have big ambitions to contribute,
And be social with cheese and a fine cabernet.
While a Pagan family love to go to the beach,
Go swimming, light a fire and play games.
And then, at home, developing their pictures,
And hanging them around the house in frames.
We are all the same, alike, we’re all an equal,
In the way we live, love, lust, grow, and share.
Regardless of our religious bend we all help,
We all love peace and security, we all care.
22nd Sept for Ironic Zink's what is society contest. a bit long but I enjoyed writing this.
Ranked third place
Down by the river
In a valley very green
Live the nicest little people
That were ever, ever seen.
They have lots of little houses
All along the valley floor
With so many, many windows
And such tiny, tiny doors.
And if you’re very careful
And you creep up soft and slow
You might sometimes hear their laughter
When the sun is sinking low.
For these tiny, tiny people
Sleep all through the sun-long day
And soon as night approaches
They get up to sing and play.
Through the night with moon and stardust
Shining in the river’s face
They go dancing down the valley
Breaking up the mist like lace.
And if you’re very careful
In the morning soft and slow
You can sometimes find their jewels
On the grass-blades hanging low,
For the nicest little people
In the river valley green
Take the mist and dew and stardust
And their laughter all unseen
And they mix them all together
Just before the night is through
So that in the early sunshine
We enjoy their jewels too.
Inside grows dour
each passing hour,
another second hand
mouthful of sand
Falling into guillotined arms
fully embraced,
Take me wherever
inevitability goes,
Nah, been down that road
peeled back every layer,
there’s nothing there
not even the bare,
Shine or rust
ashes nor dust
No answers
resignation to hope,
No common ground
only random expectations,
No opening eyes
to claustrophobic lies,
Severed arm’s feel damn good
I’m getting rid of mine
gonna grow wings
Oh look at the birds fly
they eat each other too,
Rabid and full of zest
laying proxy eggs
one flew over many a nest,
Take five, four times daily
in any order, pick and mix
just be sure to take them all,
Anxiety winsomely subsides
senses assuaged,
numb and nullified
dehumanised
Back at the source,
udder contentment
suckling teats,
oh heaven’s so sweet
life’s a three way street
live die repeat
Ever think about hell
What you mean
I’m made of atoms
They can fly anywhere
over hills and far away
Yes but eventually decay
like leaves in clay
fertiliser for another day,
All we need is a seed
encoded or laced with DNA
Add water
add light
stir slowly
season with time,
Slap on the botty
a primal scream,
Here comes potential
or another toothless dream,
Hush life form!
all’s not, what it seems
By
David Kavanagh
Inside familiar folds of my hanging apron
I encounter a blinkless miniature figurine
Glossy, posable, plastic as a Lego creation
Loyal component of kitchen enforces routine
Breakfast allures with buttery muffins toasted
Lunch- a- lot predicts sandwich towers teetering
Dinner calls for lavish legs of livestock roasted
Day which follows knows a sequence repeating
Pack away cycle of soap, soak, replace, bench polishes
Scouring for recipes, Lego lady's eyes neatly smile
Cinnamon wafting whirlwind with servitude accomplishes
Devourers' belches earn her Master Caterer title
Beneath bed, which ejects me at six am alarm
Failed slipper search produces palm sized plaster sculpture
Icing faced, eyes without memory, eternally calm
Solid base she stands on stops commotion from toppling her
Nine am sees my arrival, politely inquiring co-operation
Afternoon forgets to yawn, incessant key tapping keeps on
Harsh carpark steps echo, repell dusk's contemplation
Traffic jams tomorrow's chasms, where dreams hold reunion
Crisp gives way to crinkles, plaster sculpture refutes
Her congeniality and aptitude due to exhaustion
Chalky cheeks split with encouragements' overuse
Legs held as one are motionless to express discourse
Steam escaped open door shows mirrored me showered
Bounce of towel buffed flesh rises in delightful nonchalance
Droplets of conciousness roll a path cleansed in empowerment
Serpent tongue hair saturates time, attacks life with vehemence
On a far off, lonely hillside
a living spectacle awaits
where aspens spin their golden crowns
and sleepy maple trees awake.
A place where winding paths are lined
with multicolored canopies
where gurgling streams are tickling
frogs and fish and buzzing bees.
A swath of pumpkins in a patch
in varied shapes askew appears
a hanging scarecrow’s crooked smile
fails to raise the raven’s fears.
As autumn’s sun fades wistfully
a crisp cool breeze sways branch and leaf
a lone horned owl is hooting low
reminders that fall’s days are brief.
As sun’s soft rays in beams surround
kissing fields in copper tones
stillness comes as dark descends
and hugs warm Autumn’s afterglow.
Written on 10/22/2018
Picture a Day
There are pictures of days
I have no memory of,
baby pictures….
could be anybody…
around eighth grade…
ahh, could be me…
High School graduation…
OH YEAH!!! ME.
19 years old…in uniform…
looking way too young…
Those candid shots…
“now turn to the left”
NO<
Form:
What happens when rotten strange fruit…
Hanging from trees of auction block wood
Become stinking pieces of black flesh…
Dried blood putrefying in murderous streets…?
When crystallized tears of remorse…Laden and
Loaded with explosive grief…Flow down weary
Faces wrinkled by time’s trials, tribulations and
Treacherousness and neglect of freedom, justice
And equality, all become like inconsequential
Sunned raisins and festering sores…?
When visions of deferred dreams become blurred
Realities,
Fogged by the steam of volcanic anger…Pray tell…
What happens?
Pray tell…what happens? And then what?—Please,
Pray tell?!