Long Haws Poems
Long Haws Poems. Below are the most popular long Haws by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Haws poems by poem length and keyword.
on weekends, Mondays, and maybe Fridays too/
across the Bebop time zones/
people be digging at flea markets 4 Bebop jazz gold/
walkin', talkin', lookin' workin' the price/
on a table way in the back/
I dug into a crate of LPS and found jazz vinyl alongside a vacuum cleaner/
It was Mark Murphy singing vocalese/
and the young Roland Kirk before Rahsaan was in there too/
both in mint condition for a buck and a blunt/
we all smoked a few/
as I looked out over the galaxy of tables and booths/
I saw the knot of people selling their unwanted stuff/
Man, what a ride to shuck-N-jive about the vintage jazz LPS you can't find/
Miles, Base, Stanley Turrentine, Hampton Haws, and Annie Ross/
are there for the taking' in a jazz flea market vinyl heaven/
come early before the sun up with a flashlight in hand/
to dig deep into the tables and crates to find a record of Cliff Jordan with sax in hand/
You can dig all day at record stores, flea markets, and online vintage jazz sites/
and not find one 1950s jazz vinyl LP you are looking to buy by choice/
Man, that's such a drag on the jazz-diggin' society/
my time is up walking through the dusty aisles and tables filled with junk/
so dig, all is not lost/
I bargained for and got Cozy Cole's Topsy Part One
now I'm on my way to a garage sale I got hip to the other day/
to were back in the day/
Blue Note jazz vinyl covers had a whole lot to say
On a sunny day in late September
we were on our way to Runswick Bay,
on a walk that we gladly remember,
meeting people on the Cleveland Way.
Assorted folk with the same idea
taking in distant views over the sea,
a gentle breeze, the far horizon clear,
nearby hips and haws bright on bush and tree.
Whoever you meet, just what do you say?
Should it be ”Hi!” or rather “Hello!”?
Is it “Good morning” or maybe “Good day?”
If they greet me first I go with the flow.
Whatever is said may offer a clue,
tell you something about the other,
whether there is further chat to pursue
or just some remarks about the weather.
Having arrived we sat by the beach
eating our sandwiches watched by some dogs
and seagulls, waiting to swoop or to reach
for tasty morsels, whatever drops.
After a paddle to refresh my feet,
there were four and a half miles to return
to Sandsend for our walk to complete.
First there were steps to climb by the burn,
passing more people too breathless to greet;
grateful to pause we let them pass by
with a nod or wave – but wished for a seat!
There at the top a gate was held wide
by a couple with smiles to wave us through.
We paused as I stretched my cramp to ease
also to remove a stone from my shoe;
then onward we trod refreshed by the breeze.
Off the cliff face using the updraught
fulmars glided scanning the sea below.
Retracing our steps, features we'd passed
informed us how far we still had to go.
High on his combine, late harvest to reap
the farmer raised his hand as we stopped,
paused to pick blackberries more sharp than sweet.
Speckled wood butterflies near to us dropped.
At last we came to more steps to descend,
holding the rail as these tested our knees.
Pausing again with views of Sandsend
and spray from breakers whipped up by the breeze.
Back at the car there was salt on the screen.
Time to examine my blistered feet
and to doze awhile, pondering the cuisine
of Whitby and just what we might eat:
Scampi and whitebait with too many chips,
cans of ginger beer to ease it all down,
observed by gulls we looked at the ships
that brought our supper to this port of renown.
* * *
We count our blessings that we were able
to escape to the coast for refreshment
before Covid restrictions on travel
could prevent a day of enjoyment.
A laugh
can be more terrifying
than a roar or a scream
in the wrong light,
In the long night,
Lunatic giggles
Idiot he-haws
Obscene chuckles
When the quiet hour, the full moon time,
Spreads its leathery wings
Jaw aching, teeth chattering,
Cruel cold
Spits sleet at your window
The monster slobbering down the glass
That sound...
That ugly, witless noise
Turns your knees to rotten fruit
Your emotions become demons toys
a sweating statue
Only your eyes able to move, jittering
Hyper awareness
Night vision and your hearing acute
You can almost count the stitches
of your shirt through the skin of your back
Every minùte tick, Every quiet whoosh of air
Noticed like a stripper on stage
Ancient supernatural powers,
animal instincts
Awaken to the thrumming of your over active heart
Short blips, images, stutter brightly
In your mind
A painted clown face with evil teeth
Wall-eyed stare no where near funny
A corpse with skull decomposing before your eyes
The blue- black face that haunts you
Arms aching to feel the weight of him
Time to shut the doors, bar the windows, lock the box in your mind…
Time to tell the whisper man enough is enough
Remind yourself of the words of truth…
“Philippians 4:7-8
And the peace of God, which passeth all understanding, shall keep d your hearts and minds through Christ Jesus. Finally, brethren, whatsoever things are true, whatsoever things are honest, whatsoever things are just, whatsoever things are pure, whatsoever things are lovely, whatsoever things are of good report; if there be any virtue, and if there be any praise, think on these things.”
Rinse and repeat
I get my mass shootings mixed up
every day-another one-
makes you somewhat numb
the killers are all much the same
lifetime losers- twisted agenda
so quick to place the blame-
They can plan and finance their mayhem
then claim that they're insane
spared the sparky chair and ball and chain
a lifetime of freebies...at the peril of my pay-
There's a pack of mad dogs lying in wait
ready to unload their unbridled fangs
time to (perc) up folks-time to lock and load
at least you'll give society a chance
when the next time bomb explodes....
Bernie and the hee-haw gang want to give these A-holes
the right to vote--
PIN THE TAIL
O’Haggard Hoarfrost, she plays winks,
rocks on a sawhorse, tweedle-dee drinks.
Mad Merrie O’Boyle slays lightning from nails —
dazed loony-toon, wears out his flannel tails.
W’cked, their niece, says, “Take them away,” bickers,
with Midnight Judge in his moonwashed-knickers.
Their nephew, hees and haws, a blinking donkey-in-law.
O’Haggard and Merrie pinned his tail on his sacred flaws.
Force-swept, Hoarfrost and O’Boyle, under-dressed,
spoiled with lots of off-the-rocker friends to impress.
W’cked and her donkey are still looking for his appendage.
Facial features are pinned-up on the craziest stages.
5/29/2021
Beasts of Burden
By Franklin Price
2/13/2016
Beasts of burden are the Elephant,
And the Ass; at least I think
The former is Republican,
The latter Democrat; they stink
The story I'm here to tell you
Is about the two of them,
And how they go to Washington;
Many times on just a whim
Neither has an interest
In carrying the load
Or delivering on their elected jobs
To keep this country on the road
The elephant has gotten fatter
With manna from above
The ass just stands and hees and haws
It's a sound you have to love
Neither are delivering
They're way too good for that
Besides the roads are crumbling
From the loads of pork and fat
The elephant blocks the doorway
The ass then kicks it shut
We the people watch in wonder
With heads stuck up our our butts
Put the elephant on a diet
Stop the ass's hee and haw
Don't accept when they point fingers
That's really sticking in my craw
Brace them together to the wagon
To move collectively along
Or remove them from the traces
To figure out what they did wrong
Though discriminatory asper discerning
legitimate information TIME
Magazine considered
a reliable trustworthy,
and valuable source to this rhyme
stir, who perused cover story, sans
January 28th, 2019 issue as prime
material to concoct
more serious than amusing
poem mindful not to spoil mealtime
sharing insightful ruses not so sublime
utilizing underhanded tactics that chime
with markedly innocuous discordant
undertones for longtime
(within realm of information technology)
garnering bajillion zeroes
after face value of dime
(I chose that denomination...
just book haws), suit clime
mate here, plus yours truly
aspired to fuel inquisitiveness,
since text unable to display mime
relayed by this messenger,
who questions gravity of crime
head honcho blithely
involving selling personal data
thus affecting prospects of incipient wartime.
every keystroke action typed by me,
and everybody else linkedin into web
foregoes their life details free
for selling treasured binary binded bits we
bull leave tubby encrypted, yet algorithms
invested with secret electron size key
sophisticated to sniff out valuable trove
within every pixel typed into ever re:
screen of every Internet app pre
pair ring the equivalent
of voluminous dossier lee
ving nary a trace, yet data packets
more precious than fine spun gold,
invisible electronic bursts glee
fully swept up like nobody's business – see
ming to provide a wellspring
of many a cottage industry
similar to a pugilist on par with Muhammad Ali
generating revenue, and
driving profits with accessory
trinkets or gewgaws hyped up as de
facto plum purchases, perhaps purchased online
whereat vendor (unbeknownst to patron) sells
vital transaction information to data broker he
or she obviously for a price - yes our SECURITY!
The main attraction
The hairs on your head standing up
Electricity says, “what’s up?”
Standing in the shadow - a pup
The satisfaction
That one gets when displaying claws
Jumping through hoops, the hees and haws
Delirious from fighting a cause
Roaring reaction
Looking at the cameraman
it’s intense it’s a one night stand
He’s a brave soul - O’Callahan
Without a whip
Without a chair
Without the hype
The mane attraction
The hairs on your head standing up
Electricity says, “what’s up?”
Standing in the shadow - a pup
Roaring reaction
Looking at the cameraman
it’s intense it’s a one night stand
He’s a brave soul - O’Callahan
1/10/2022
At night of the Hight of winter, when from the Netherlands comes the brutal sun, lightning without rain
and at the same time clouds with frost, rain for a while, hail, snow and wind of the elements, large and small.
No end in sight; it is a day with a change, storm of clouds, storm of winds, shipwreck, submarine, decomposition
and the four veils.
No beginning and no end.
WHEN the moon in the morning or at noon is as bright as an orb, or almost, and it becomes night before the fourth
evening of the lunar month.
I, to stand in your light as in a spotlight:
I to look into the eyes of a crescent: love, flame, bed. You, great, powerful, oh so distant, as luminous as stars.
A desert of fire. At night you search for me.
THE cypresss of the monasticism are under your feet, the nuns walking barefoot, when they keep time, when they sing
while tying themselves together and when they put their tongues to the left and to the right in the custom of zdrakas.
On the walls of their chapel, near the chapel and the curtain, there are female saints, goddesses, whom they adore,
and those that they cover with veils and they cover with gilded haws. It is as if they were entering a house and praying
in front of the altar. The angel of women, whom they saw in a dream and whom they know to be linked to the will of God,
blazed with stars when they looked at her.
To them she is a light, a light that penetrates them like the opening of a wound. And they throw their arms over her,
when they press her feet.
That is how they pray.
WHEN i heard them chanting, I felt like a stone, as if pierced by the time of their desires. The stones of the market of Damascus
by the way of the river.
How have they lived, with their desire, like dew in their eyes.
I, my feet up, the state of being crushed, felt also that I have attained my purpose and that nothing remains, nothing is more than dust,
nothing any longer is alive.
One wind against my whole body, threw me to dust.
These are days of longing, of vulnerability, of vulnerability. These days. I stand like a young woman in front of a mirror.
Who is that person staring at me? Someone long dead and buried.
Everything that had lasted for centuries is gone.
I am facing my own death.
:: 11.10.2020 ::
Peachy keen verboten maiden jailbait
USA plum ova ripe fruit
inevitably, inimitably, invariably,...
whets whistle pubescent magic flute
impossible mission to rein with absolute
zero sucks esse to temper acute
raging testosterone, I attribute
overbearing animal urge doth constitute
difficult surge protector
resultantly, subsequently, untimely...
not inconceivable teenage
parenthood does contribute
overwhelming responsibility
adds complex twist making destitute
expense regarding sudden newlife
analogous how simple surface
Möbius strip doth render convolute
frivolous shenanigans offer pointless dispute
buck haws fawn hook caisson
akin to holding back the tide, disrepute
fallout, whereby accountability ideally
one must distribute
between minors, who risked major shock
generally ill prepared to handle
grasping hot wire strong
enough to electrocute
call of the wild heedless,
when in throes to execute
human reproduction hard rock
tune somber sober air thenceforth
issues out magic flute
after drenching, dribbling, drooling
residual expulsions 'pon hirsute
tuft possibly engendering hyperacute
revulsion basically atavistic
copulation recalls imbrute
tell tale swollen belly of gal doth impute
culling instinctual maternal institute
fancy free footloose
promiscuity makes involute
sober reality moot point,
whether one or both kids feel irresolute
adding insult to injury
mama's papa's none to happy
swiftly kickstarts harried styled jackboot
careful pops not to damage unborn
vital umbilical cord taut as jute
strong enough to harness malamute
and/or team of huskies in conjunction with
wild horses or domesticated
breeds Equus caballus
couldn't drag away even for one minute
infinitesimal speck - trim
unmistakable to misattribute,
how basic multiplication
one cannot miscompute,
and product will upend and misroute
grandiose plans leaving
puppy love mute.