Long Ho hum Poems
Long Ho hum Poems. Below are the most popular long Ho hum by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Ho hum poems by poem length and keyword.
The flags are waving brightly,
hypnotizing the naive,
they shimmer like carnival balloons.
There are merry andrews waltzing,
to the themes of marching bands,
they’re camouflaged to blend in with the moon.
The party’s getting started,
so we better get in line
- the wind is breathing something like a sigh.
The smell of cotton candy
drowns out the barkers script,
and multicolored lights announce the mood.
There’s rain off in the distance
- you can feel on your skin
- the children refuse to stay in line.
Dogs are barking somewhere,
and lanterns dance like birds
- there’s nothing left to do but step in time,
two, three, four.
The tent is Chinese silk,
as silver as a coin
- acrobats take tickets with their lips.
The sawdust smells like bacon,
and the seats are way too small,
but the crowd is pushing in
because red rain is falling.
Elephants turn like dancers,
and trumpet to the night
- the sound shakes the world like my alarm.
Another ho-hum morning,
soon the sky will tell a lie,
- that lemon light has something to proclaim.
My bags are packed for boredom,
the trip will last all day,
- there’s nothing left to do but step in time,
two, three, four.
Let’s go on the mother load road trip across continents skip
Even the hip can’t snip or pip the lip fillip of each sip or dip
A sybaritic not a critic’s tour to explore why more is more
Streets of beats galore & locavore treats an epicurean drip
In the Argentine bravado larder of course the empanada
From their mercado source with fine wine could try harder
Top of the poll Asado's charcoal soul to the song of cicada
Austrian fold in the past caught for foodies some sort of sport
They’ve fought over which Sacher torte does bewitch hold court
Or flattered the dish that mattered plattered crumbed & battered
Viennese wheeze a subpoena tease for a leaner schnitzel wiener
Lazing ease & grazing please on amazing spice isles in pyjamas
Laid back smiles made crack conch rice & peas in the Bahamas
Don’t give a damn about Claude Van Dam give me real mussels
Garlic specked not muscle flecked fraud whenever in Brussels
Snaffle waffles abroad should be crisp gooey as Belgians know
Elite frites oh and their stonker bonkers Wonka flair cocoa show
Brazil’s fill me to the gills thrill is still & always will be Feijoada
Even those in a posh off roader chose this nosh meat's Pagoda
Top of the steeple of food of the people a homegrown Skoda
Adore for any course a tour de Force encore honed toned Yoda
Canadian hardy foie gras machine a mardi gras that’s Arcadian
In the stirrup chirrup quaffing absurd maple syrup is Palladian
Nerds with their curds scoffing mean poutine almost Circadian
For rookies ducks pluck shells shuck bones suck cookies for luck
Opiner cuisine not in history stuck a mean memory mystery miner
Hymn of whim cough overcome by swim in broth Szechuan numb
Yummy unctuous darlings scrumptious diddly umptious dim sum
Ho hum no scrum finer all day diner always did come from China
Nope!, this aint a
(non) commercial
Christmas plug for ye,
nonetheless, a greeting
of joie de
vivre buttressed with
(wreath) in this ole
foreign nicked saint wannabe
awash with spiritual
awakening unexpectedly
alighting boosting, and catapulting,
the mood of this
dog gone intro
spective atheistic he
then for merely "actively listening,"
sans texting to me,
(thine youngest daughter) hook
confided a circumstance,
that found her teary
eyed, whereat papa (meself)
galvanizing enervating,
and bold facing
(italicized optional),
a decades long glee
(son) doting dada, (me)
hood did earlier today
underwent spiritual reawakening
experience, where poignant see
movie ling ushered
emotional concessions prithee
lee transcending, and super see
ding ordinary ho-hum
(oh so yesterday...)
psychologically (or psychically)
escalating euphoria juiced being
a humble papa
yes sir re:
vicariously afflicted when,
Shana Aubrey (said
nineteen year old pro genie),
(who lives under
auspices of mine
kid sister in
Bend, Oregon – Voluntarily)
painfully shared her recent
(first) beaming, blooming,
and budding romance
rendered null and void
primarily duet who wah
bajillion geographical miles
from Colchester, Great
Britain, where she
(mine offspring) under
parental care of thee
guardian (angels) Shari Todd,
and George Andrew Dunning
supreme qual lit tee
aunt and uncle respective lee)
spent propitious year,
whence har mo' knee
me lass struck up,
and young lad o' a louver she
discovered without visa vis,
where, the young chap (Zak)
broke off (figuratively smote) long
distance elle la gee.
Gnome hatter at my helpless state
hive hilt that being privy at any rate
which parental aye deed eek quate
with darling daughter as a mature primate.
Disappointed that most of the things
she kept contained
on a daily basis
were far too banal to entertain
memories of sad things
over the years
ho-hum anxieties, insipid fears
rather mundane
and not even interesting
unlikely worries
like being kidnapped by pirates
or eaten by a polar bear-
but worries like her favorite dress
being ruined by the cleaners
and not having anything decent to wear
or getting a bad permanent in her hair
Disgusted by the
blandness
of my Mama's secret life
I flipped and skipped ahead
to after she and Papa wed
but it was no better
just drab descriptions
of her experience as a housewife
and lists of petty irritations
things he did that annoyed her
but she hollered those out
in screams and shouts
so even those were no great surprise
'cause it didn't take much
to 'get a rise' out of my Mama...
Eventually I learned
that people will answer
those questions every day
in the way they live their life
in the things they say
for there's a pattern to everything
and ultimately we each reveal
all we try to conceal
whether in our work or in our play
...and my Mama spoke volumes
in her diary
in all the things she
didn't say
Pitching electioneering, albeit Democratic ticket...
as 2020 presidential election nearing
pleading joshing, and endearing...
The choice for commander in chief dum...
dum... dum... dum..
will winnow down, thus
political prognosticator pundits
no longer remain mum
between Donald John Trump,
whose second term win,
would find yours truly numb
versus Joseph Robinette Biden Junior
could infuse flickering
uneasiness among electorate
(quite a few skool
of hard knocks alum
including yours truly),
who attests surfing cyber seas
as seasoned beach bum
up until this moment
feeling rather glum
regarding fate of American democracy
fizzling, muckraking, and sputtering
linkedin with kickstarting,
snapchatting, and twittering
along ever so ho hum
awaiting fateful deliverance
as dueling banjos strum
meanwhile irritable bowel syndrome
nsync with nausea
bubbling, gurgling, quickening
within collective tum
no doubt alleviated chugging,
guzzling, and quaffing
countless bottles Bacardi rum.
Nothing less at stake than (an ill eagle
feebly clutching cherished symbols - regal
representing land of the free and
home of the brave
analogous to once buoyant seagull
encompassing United States)
metaphorical snooping Beagle
only finding peanuts after landing
discovery (of America) triggering extralegal
imbroglios, which courtesy...
Thank manifest destiny
wrought accursed land grab,
where survival of fittest (think militarily)
nonchalantly, insouciantly actually
quite aggressively did nab
great juicy fruited plain continental slab
...to the mountains to the prairies
to the oceans white with foam...
where indigenous people
once stood tall and proud
applying contrived accoutrements,
which implements rendered mortally to stab
invaders, hence convenient plug to jibjab,
(while sack religious lame chap
donning unisexual hijab)
whale within poetic license
to orca straight heady
i.e. think lame muck cab
bra (even garnering groan from
ghost of captain Ahab)
denouncing cheesy pun,
whereby I (Stuart Little) best remain
as caged mouse
subjected to experimentation
within bore writ Tory lab.
Will you only read my work
If for a contest entry?
Or will you because you love
The poetess that is ME?
Do you only check my rhymes,
When I decide to compete?
Or do you just read my lines
Cause you want a tasty treat?
I read, for I love your words
I simply love who you are!
I read, you see, for to me
You’re a luminescent star!
Of course contests can be fun
It gives us a little edge
But some poets can be shy
They peek from behind the hedge
So try out the “normal” ones
That ones that witness of life
Of those precious daily things
Yet with love and passion rife
I quarry these little rhymes
From my heart at times like stone
I squeeze them out soaked with blood
When it has a flesh like tone
Some of them may seem ho hum
Others pretty much mundane
Contest or not, they are me
Passionate and quite insane!
Eileen Manassian Ghali
In a ho-hum town of grays and browns
of dreary skies and gloomy sighs
a gangly stranger came into town
with a peculiar glimmer in his eyes.
He tipped his hat with a toothy smile
to folks whose faces never changed
he looked all around for quite awhile
and people thought him kinda strange.
The very next day, the sun did shine
the townsfolk woke to a jolting shock
bright, bursting colors had come alive
the whole town was painted with polka dots!
A great commotion filled the streets
never before had they seen such a sight
young ones loved it, old folks shrieked
still others laughed with all their might.
Then magic of the polka dots began
to lighten hearts with happiness
with a carefree spirit of newness again
and hope for future pleasantness
...I wonder where that stranger went next?
Assigned to a new work place,
Surprised but not shocked.
I am older, they want us gone.
Have for a time.
Ho hum.
What is new here?
I enjoy my job too much to leave.
Most of the young ones are friendly.
Not overjoyed of course,
I have black and white baby photos.
They have colored videos of themselves.
I am flexible with my schedule.
Maybe too much so.
They take advantage, I turn my face softly.
Showing them that I can be kind and forgiving.
They begin to come around.
Soften up a bit.
Realize all old people
are not the lady who screeched at them
to stand back six feet in the grocery store yesterday.
Kindness is there, we just have to look harder these days.
I am constantly looking.
If I find it once every eight hours, I am good.
And I am usually good.
We rather wish that someone would
lead him to a tree.
They can be so useful
for life and death.
He might look more elegant
from a distance.
But this one decides to join us
in this bar,
sits at our table, displaying
his filthy fingernails,
his rather snotty tissues, sniffing,
so audibly, so blatantly.
Each half-hour or so he has a smoke,
so leaves the room,
permitting us to take
a deeper breath,
drawing somewhat cleaner air
into our lungs.
Ah, who has the courage to say
please go away -
though it would be better to use
some choice language?
But all we do is sit -
just hope, ho hum!
(Sep 2022)
Watching the clouds at dusk
and the deer in flight. . .
I wait for these beauties to cross.
The hue of the sky
morphs from ebony ~ scores navy blue;
headrests of angels tucked away.
Camry headlights illuminate
the warm-green of oak and moss;
unsettled as the shadows shift.
The floodlights hover
over the blue mountain poly-tarp
with potential nightlife.
Exciting the thrill
of heightened landscape — friends
of the sun, strangers at midnight.
Diversely the ho hum
of security, under the lamplight. . .
in front of the smart t.v.
nevertheless
August trance of romance
the images framed —
God of fame, gifted them.
8/7/2019