Long Hocks Poems
Long Hocks Poems. Below are the most popular long Hocks by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Hocks poems by poem length and keyword.
Fast as an atomic banshee, he roils sacred halls
of White House clutches levers with brass balls
American powers remain unrestrained when he calls
Armada to exorcise imagine aery dragons,
he inarticulately falls
non-communicative, faux eruditely generative,
and heartily galls
toward this introspective kickstarter male,
and most likely others he appalls.
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My inner guru hankers to share voice
amidst increasing din
and clamors in reaction to insidious machinations fin
hushed via Machiavellian offal prince,
who unleashes clout with Cheshire grin
unconcerned about population, chaste,
from their wells Fargo wing.
* * * * * * * * * * * *
Most every citizen banker, and kin
stared down vis a vis fierce-some intimations
catapult escalating, spin
laughing at rigged voting outlook
gratefully inflicts populace with monstrous win
doomsday soldiers -
art of the deal book not writ by said urchin.
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Though regularly affiliated with top notch
kudos to virtual soapbox platform
re: all poetry to express Bing averse
toward ill feted Barron settlement
of United States government tossed like scotch
on thar hocks, thus an uneasy angst
also invisibly grabs me by the crotch
cuz das Trump power monger,
I fear rubric of democracy, he will botch!
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This poem alternately titled -
harbinger of political debacle wolf find antipode
where toxic brew at crack of 12 a.m.
January 20th 2017 doth bode
doctored pregnant swollen tidal anarchistic military toad
deeds sheepishly shape into battalions
in tandem - fraternal order of police erode
Civilian protesters unite with ordinary citizen bankers
crowdsource sing metallic ca clash to goad
Form:
(alternately titled one me silly more till manufactured
from go win addle American
non refundable private parts)
each set of twenty three chromosomes
the basic biological building blocks
of life came out cervix
when second hand of analog clocks
barely and scarcely swept across dial,
wrought offspring appearance
as a pier a docks
closely resembling a monkey
perhaps...hmm...
maybe mother mated with a chimp
assimilating chromosomal flox
genetic combination brought about add hocks
viz bouncing baby boy skinny and fair game
as a pluperfect future target for jocks
when I took first gasp of air sputtered
like an old engine that knocks,
now just easing into ma deuce score
and xix year with hair reed locks
twittering, snorting, rattling nonetheless
became precious human dependent
with mat chew anti body mox
see for father and mother
to care despite expelling nox
shuss gas out derriere, which profuse flatulence
natural immunization
kept away infected kids with pox
nicknamed little buttock blaster
now sits in a comfy chair and rocks
reminiscing about boyhood
and a pooch named Socs
who told time applying faux paws vox
like tum make sounds resembling tick tocks
Nowadays every potential mom and dad
disappointed unless offspring(s) feverish follow fad
decreeing qualified as gifted birth of lass or lad
go wing great lengths to prod and push
progeny until a genius to be had
rather tubby thankful and gratefully glad
regaling robust surprise
packaged traits of yore
inheriting genetics descended
when early apes did de tour
terrestrial virgin earth
anatomically complete store
reed awesomely astounding miracle from spore
sized fertilized ovum (healthy
and sound baby boy or girl) hood roar
if lionized, which feline bellow mew might mean
change my dye ya pore
and pamper me sum more
gnome hatter wailing mama or papa ignore
thence nurturing baby pipes por favor
kinship knits omnipotent bond evermore
where tis instinctual to adore.
Step Into Starlight
by Michael R. Burch
Step into starlight,
lovely and wild,
lonely and longing,
a woman, a child . . .
Throw back drawn curtains,
enter the night,
dream of his kiss
as a comet ignites . . .
Then fall to your knees
in a wind-fumbled cloud
and shudder to hear
oak hocks groaning aloud.
Flee down the dark path
to where the snaking vine bends
and withers and writhes
as winter descends . . .
And learn that each season
ends one vanished day,
that each pregnant moon holds
no spent tides in its sway . . .
For, as suns seek horizons—
boys fall, men decline.
As the grape sags with longing,
remember—the wine!
Originally published by The Lyric
A family of nine sisters, none named the way the names could have fit.
They started out with three flowers, and thought it wise to continue it.
Our last name so plain, Daddy argued. Daisy, Fern and Violet sounds smart.
Rose, Hazel, Jasmine, Poppy, Iris and Willow arrived nine months apart.
Let me guess, people would say, Willow is tall and lean and flexible, a sway.
Could not have been more wrong; she was as inflexible as the break of day.
Jasmine must be exotic, erotic, a delight to the eyes, delicate and sweet.
In reality she had ham hocks large enough she could cows and bulls defeat.
Violet is probably dainty, sweet, a nature lover, who loves the woods, right?
In truth she was an advocate for woman, tall and portly, screaming with might.
Fern is a lover of verdant grasses with her feet solid as the earth I am sure.
You would be totally off base, sir. She explodes with color, totally impure.
Please let me guess that Daisy is a delight, light and lithe, like a fairy true.
I hate to tell you, but she is dour, dank, damp and she would truly dislike you.
Let me guess then that Rose is not thorny in any kind of way, pure and sweet.
She is the only one who lives up to her name. She would prick you in defeat.
The assumer is askance now. He has only two guesses left in his drawer.
Hazel is shy and unassuming? Never cackles, non witchlike to the core?
Sorry, I assure him. You have guessed her wrong. Ready for Poppy now?
Poppy is dull, not vibrant in any kind of way, no redness to or fro?
She is actually orange and pink, fairy like, she dazzles like a rainbow.
You have one more chance, I tell the man who likes to label all.
What is her name? He asks, for he has lost track in his giant fall.
Iris is short, squat, nothing like her name? He guesses. Am I right?
I told him the truth and he disappeared, completely out of sight.
The last I saw him he was being chased around the garden phlox.
By a giant wolf, hyena, lion, bear and very hungry fox.
Moral of this story: You cannot judge people on their name
Or put them into a box, for no two Primroses are the same,
and you will be eaten by a fox.
A is for Annie Apple Blossom she buds in the Spring.
B is Betty Baby Breath she's such a dainty thing.
C is for Miss Candy Tuft pink-cheeked with hair of gold.
D is Debbie Dandelion who never does what she's told!
E is for Easter Lily she's as white as snow.
F is Francie Fairy Bells who ring-a-lings where she goes.
G is for Ginny Gardenia perfumed oh so sweet.
H is Holly Hocks a Tomboy, she has two left feet!
I is for Inca Lily dressed in colors light.
J is Joanie Jump-Ups, Johnny's little sister bright.
K is for Katie Kangaroo Paw her nails are painted red.
L is Lila Lady Slipper who stays too long a bed.
M is for Merry Morning Glory dressed in pale blue.
N is Nancy Narcissus who trumpets ""toodeloo!"
O is for Olivia the Ox-Eyed Daisy dolly.
P is Patty Petunia, her pancakes are a folly.
Q is for Queenie Anns Lace her dresses all have ruffles.
R is Ruby Rose-a-lee who almost always shuffles.
S is for Sandy Snap Dragon tall and thin. petite.
T is Tallulah Tulip her clothes are so off beat!
U is for Uma Umbrella Flower, sweet and sunny.
V is Vicky Violet she plays with Easter bunnies.
W is for Wendy Water Lily she'd rather swim than dance.
X is Xana Xmas Tree in Winter she's entrancing.
Y is for Yani Yarrow, a girl so bonny fair
Z is Zelda Zinnia, she pinning Yani's hair.
All our girls are fine and strong, so beautiful and brave
Not a single one of them would think to misbehave!
Bio: Wise woman.
Axe the old Don, a trump peter n piper
of incredulous hellish crud - be gone
ha air brushed pompous ****
Sunkist in Macy's window
then like a jackal hound, he doth run
after public outcry yelps
for his hide leaving
proletarian discord re: pyrrhic victory won.
Donald Duck Trump ™$ - a pompous ass
makes war with his big brass
knuckles and bucket of crass
maligns vis a vis character assassination
while kissing thing kith
darting forked tongue sharp as bro kin glass
inciting banal deathly hallowed
expletives toward lass
sees – especially Fox Television
news anchor woman Megyn Kelly
(quite so many ill mannered indiscretions ago)
inducing said personality
to bear the brunt of brutish mass
of vitriolic n vile insults sacrilegiously
maliciously, noxiously, opprobiously
incriminating, hellaciously,
desecrating opportunistically as hiss oh piss
so…NO amp pull VOTE of confidence from me
(thus far ohm host halfway to 2020 election
toward such a volt char quite rude, snooty
arrogant simian with sass.
I van (terribly hard pressed)
to describe while sitting on me rump
how he oh bomb in lee rages
gnashing false teeth
Wilma backside doth slump
still blasting Democratic nomination
(pa hill a reed) as sham –
from special interest bro and sis turn pump
he, the epitome of
crass bloviation, a malignant lump
whose rants,
sans presidential outcome a shame
bullying with his millions beds this,
that and another woman to bareback jump
disseminating gene pool
birthing more Quakers
and additionally doth hump
the mass media as some foolhardy charade
and caricature of a frazzled grump
this arboreal clothed ape erected Taj Mahal
phallic symbol, where players dump
and gamble away hard earn cash
for his kitty, as if that cachet
to grind and bump
lambasting with maniacal
like "Stormy Dan" yells
leering oafish ill pout
while hair rum
(of red follicular) bulls ad hocks
atop his bulbous aerosol sprayed locks
resemble a flock
of bronzed sea gulls mocks
heady measly shaped Muppet Ox
dis eased cranial hologram shocks
of a cretaceous, facetious tocks
(sic) exogenous, insidious, and obstreperous vox.
Once, she was white--
as crisp and clean as the Sunday linen
which was perfectly spread on the dining room table,
adorned with the “good” dishes, tarnished silverware, and fake crystal glasses.
And there was an abundance of food: fried chicken, biscuits and gravy,
collards with ham hocks,
and peach cobbler.
Everything was laid out buffet-style,
waiting on the preacher to come and take supper with us.
I watched
as she served the preacher first.
Then, she gave me permission to help myself to
whatever was left on the table. I ate
while she and the preacher went into the bedroom.
Maybe to pray.
Every Sunday for seven years, it was the same.
He came. We ate. They prayed.
Now,
the preacher has moved
on to a new town, a new table, a new momma.
Our Sunday linens are faded and yellow
and she is the color of dirt.
3/4 cups of cilantro
1 cup of chopped red onions
1/4 cup of crushed garlic
1/4 cup of chopped gingerroot
1/2 cup of celery chopped
1 cup of chopped red pepper
1 cup of lime juice
1/2 cup of honey
5 tablespoons of white distilled vinegar
3 tablespoons of liquid smoke
2 cups of coconut milk
4 cups of Coca-Cola
2 cups of spiced rum
2 cups of water
5 pounds of fresh pork hocks
3 tablespoons of salt
2 tablespoons of cayenne pepper
5 tablespoons of fish stock
in a large lid pot cook for 2 hours, or until fork tender.
1 cup of degreased broth
1/2 cup of white vinegar
1 cup of pineapple juice
1/2 cup of chopped pineapples
1/4 cup of honey
reduce by half and top hock and serve with a garnish of green onions!
Raw pain cries, from inside out.
The frozen nighttime rain continues
With a whispered willow’s throw;
Dangling verbs, wording their amusement.
Black sheath ever marching,
Grown to cover blankets, toys,
And sparkling noise
Provided for our elders, friends,
And not so much an enemy
Our mirrored image shown.
Breathe out our bequeathment
In prose-filled feelings blown.
Alone unable, without Cain,
To slow or stop again
The frozen nighttime rain
Candles high in worriment
Light the way of discontent
Seek the measured music
We may find down the stairs
Within the basement of our mind,
The cellar where we hide
Our nights alone, inside
The frozen nighttime rain
Who shares the beast on fire, temper flamed
Would calmness reign as visitors exclaimed,
Oh holy shhit, this is it !
This is what we meant to say
Each time we knelt to pray.
Oh buy my book, put on my play,
Make my movie, give me one more day
I am a two-timed couplet
Formed from clay
Demanding you awake to listen,
Every word I say.
Intent that you will stay
Cold and clammy surfacing,
Survived on stones and pebbles
Grain and gram and grin
A visitor descending in
The frozen nighttime rain
Two bi-folded wrestlers
Joined with ham hocks rocking
On the porch of your good reason;
Poaching egg-filled wisdom
Eaten by your victories,
In any given season.
You steal and bawl and creep and crawl;
Learn to draw your own damn blood,
Anything to stem the flood
Make a meal
That meets your satisfaction,
Merely a distraction
From what is real,
Erecting mental stop signs
For the handicapped with zeal,
Politically, in every way,
Offensive to our brain -
When visiting
The frozen nighttime rain.
They were on the summit of the hill as if poised in a portrait.
The breeze ruffling the stud's forelock and mane as he arched his head
responding to the reins he moved on as his rider leant forward and
rubbed his poll in affection. Tensed up his withers quivering he sprang into
action careening down the slope pulling up lame. His rider dismounted
and ran his hand down his legs finding some heat in the fetlock. Lifting
his leg he found the cause a stone lodged in his frog, using his hoof
pick he dislodged it thanking his lucky stars that it was not a pulled stifle.
Checking his hind legs for heat in the hocks and gaskin he found all to be well.
He patted his croup in affection and re-examined the front leg still a little heat but his coronet seemed fine. A week's rest should put him right allowing the bruised frog time to heal. It would be tight to keep him fit for their big show in three weeks time but a strained stifle would have put him out of action for at least six weeks. On foot he lead Silver back to the stables and there applied a poultice to his hoof which he would change daily until the frog recovered, leaving Silver munching happily on hay. He walked into the tack room and replaced his tack and stood admiring the rows of rosettes that lined the walls.. The upcoming show would give him the final proof of how superb he was and then people would flock to bring their mares to him and his line would be perpetuated long into the future.