Long Huffing Poems
Long Huffing Poems. Below are the most popular long Huffing by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Huffing poems by poem length and keyword.
This cycle drifts like a glossed leaf
Bathed in mauve- red across the lane;
October ‘s cloak swathes ‘round my wish
Unfurling before winter ‘s grief –
Explosions of bold colors tease
Their every movement, every chime
Whorl along…from hillocks to ponds
Blazing sparks on timber of trees.
How Fall embers within me gleam,
As I enfold its mint perfume
Huffing blowing as north winds ‘ roam ,
Through a season’s dance quite supreme:
Autumn, let not your glory pass
For harvest moon beguiles me still--
And orchids , thyme parade their charm
While ease lulls me on sheets of grass.
Brian Strand's Completely Your Choice (8) Contest
9/13/2020
The greatest thrill you've ever had
You probably have more than one
Try to keep it clean dear people
This could be read by a bunch of young'uns
Wanna know mine well of course you do
This goes back to when I was courting
My very first kiss I can still feel the thrill
Loved messing around and cavorting
Sure blew my whistle as I rounded the bend
Snorting and huffing and puffing
The top of my head started shooting out steam
And I lost a bunch of my stuffing
Oh to go back and experience it again
Those glorious days of my youth
Unfortunately they're gone never to return
Down another gin and vermouth
When the wolf applied nicely
If he could come in,
The pigs replied thricely he shouldn't.
Then they scratched at the hairs
On their chinny chin chins,
And tightly bolted the door so he wouldn't.
But wolves, when out shopping,
Are not easily put off,
Even faced with the risks they are takin'.
This one ignored the wheezing,
And the nagging, rasping cough,
In his lust for ham, pork chops, and bacon.
First, he blew down the straw house,
Then the one made of sticks,
But by the third he was straining and grasping.
It was a veritable fortress
Of well-mortared bricks,
And emphysema left him panting and gasping.
With one last mournful howl,
The wolf knew he was done
And lay down in the driveway, embarrassed.
The pigs regained their composure
And called 911,
But when the cops came, the wolf claimed he was harassed.
The argument raged
For an hour or more
'til the cops gave them all a citation.
Still gasping for breath
As he slunk from the door,
The wolf was stopped by a squealed invitation.
"Wolfie, oh, Wolfie, please won't you come in?
We'd so like to have you for lunch."
And he would have gone on and ignored the appeal,
If he only knew that "ragout de loup" (pr. rah-goo duh loo)
Was the entrée, but he had no hunch,
And he was not one to pass up a free meal.
When a wolf's sick and hungry,
He might let down his guard
And do dumb things a wolf shouldn't ought to.
But for pigs, it's expedient
To get the final ingredient
Required for a tasty "wolf stew".
The wolf's huffing and puffing
Couldn't even come close
To the pigs' stratagems and devices.
After seven martinis,
It still hadn't dawned on the dope
That intelligence wasn't one of his vices.
If he'd had more brains than brawn,
This poor wolf might have known
That the pigs never meant to surrender.
They'd no more need to fear or hate him,
They knew the booze would marinate him,
So when they served him up and ate him,
He'd be quite succulent and tender.
If this tale has a moral, I'd like to propose
That "three heads are better than one" be selected.
In this case, not the one who worked the hardest,
But the ones who worked the smartest,
And as the little piggies guessed,
The wolf was the perfect luncheon guest.
Of course, their table manners weren't the best,
So they still made pigs of themselves, as expected.
Reindeer racks, huffing and chuffing - smokestacks
longing, like huskies, to run with shining
red sleigh. Commercials over, indicates
to Nick, in his hip black and red plaid, matching
fur-rimmed hat, pom-pom and whiskers, “Let’s go!”
Colorado Reinbeer to the rescue. The swagger
and lift of spirited gifts to neighbors.
Santa moves with the covid times, to cheer
up the down in the mouth, even the kids
with suds of their own - root or birch beer floats.
Sleigh bells and holiday harnesses play
in the steep mountain snow with “Ho! ho! ho!”
11/28/2020
Loosely based on a segment I saw on the news.
Lord I just want to sing about your grace
You sense what our weaknesses are
What we need from you
And you give it
In your time
You know just what to do
And you guide us through it
But in the mean time we don’t see it
We don’t see that you are guiding us
We did not know what it leads to
So we rebel
Huffing and puffing
Kicking and screaming along the way
You are just too funny Lord
Looking back
But it was not funny at the time
God why do you do that?
Why did you let us to go through all that?
And only to find out that you lead us to the end
And that you would help us anyway
God you can save all that trouble
By telling us
What you are doing?
You say “not”
Staring out at the bridge
Empty was his fridge
In a United Kingdom dungeon
World crumbling
Canary needed attention
Wondering about pension
Off to Stamford he went
Figuring out how to pay the rent
When he arrived Chelsea honestly tried
And before the brake
A goal they did make
Leaving Canary with nothing
Except relegation while huffing
Then puffing
Keeping it close
Canaries did not roast
Dreaming a shot went through
Everything would be level between the two
It did not happen
And Canary returned home flapping
Pensioners gave the song birds a chance
To perform a shirtless dance
Leaving them with a thought
After they fought
Saying, “We are back on top
Not ready to stop
Winners of the lower division
More mature then those having high profile missions”
Next time when things are down and out
Remember this lesson to think about
Do something with that pension check
And tomorrow there could be successful respect
It was an up and down night
We could hear them running up and down
The stairs outside our bedroom door
Why do they call it a slumber party? My husband groused.
None of them are slumbering.
Some might have been.
It was hard to tell. There were thirteen in all.
Eight and nine-year-olds, giggling and stomping.
Giggle. Stomp. Stomp. Giggle.
I heard a long huffing sigh.
Then he rolled over.
Two seconds later our bedroom door opened.
Putting light in our eyes.
“I told you there was a clock in here!” a little voice said.
I glanced at the clock they had been looking at.
It said 3:59 a.m.
I could not stop laughing.
Neither could my husband.
What's the greatest thrill you've ever had
You probably have more than one
Try keeping it clean, my dear, dear people
This may be read by some young'uns
Wanna know mine, well of course you do
This goes back to when I was courting
My very first kiss, I can still feel the thrill
Loved messing around and cavorting
Sure blew my whistle as I rounded the bend
Snorting and huffing and puffing
The top of my head started shooting out steam
And I lost a bunch of my stuffing
Oh to go back and experience them again
Those glorious days of my youth
Unfortunately they're gone and long forgotten
Gonna down another gin and vermouth
© Jack Ellison 2015
Embraced by the Night
as it falls slowly onto my lap,
its face loses warmth,
the cold overtakes the residual
heat as it leaves its system,
abandoned by its devoted
owls of city life,
waveless emotions fill
the tattered streets of
forgotten memories.
The shadows remember
imprinting every visitor
of each generation,
cursed to loneliness
and the unfriendly
familiarity of flashing
synthetic lights carved
alongside each street
corner advertising
its owner's utopia.
The air fills with delectable
treats,
salty and sweet fleeting
away in a cloud
huffing and puffing,
the smoke blazes
through tone-deaf
voices of drunkards
passed out by the trash
bins living and breathing
on the sounds of past
regrets wandering through
painstaking artistry,
only a smoke and a sip
can endure the frost
in this City’s jagged
itinerary
Wednesday, January 27th,
unseasonably warm by a few degrees
black and white of old snow
and soon to be new trees rest
against smoldering grey clouds.
The “wolfy” wind rests
tired from Tuesday’s “huffing and puffing”.
An urgent stillness greets the silence,
birds warily peer from stilled hangouts,
discarded food wrappers sleep in the alleys,
“Old Glory” hangs listless and burdened,
soft yellow windows blink – focus on the day.
A lone dog barks reclaiming his territory
from the nightly interlopers,
in the distance coyote’s yip
calling the children home to bed.
The old clock ticks as the sun
struggles to disperse the cloudy veil,
filtered light casting no shadows
on the black and white union of grey.
John G. Lawless
1/27/2016