Long Hunker Poems
Long Hunker Poems. Below are the most popular long Hunker by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Hunker poems by poem length and keyword.
Quarantined
By Franklin Price
04/08/2020
So you're tired of being quarantined
Are at home and off the street
The restaurants have shut their doors
Take out's all there is to eat
Could try to fix some for yourself
With the help of family
Who knows, it could be edible
You'll just have to try and see
Or as a bear in winter,
Could sleep the COVID through
Then wake up somewhat smaller
Maybe down a size or two
No matter what your preference
How and what you feed your face
Don't run in crowds, wash your hands well,
Stay quarantined, and in your place.
PS
Please don't wait for government
To hunker down and isolate.
You are the most responsible
For determining your fate.
On Twitter, late at night, you’re a big tough guy
calling people out and spitting in their eyes.
But in the real world - you blubber and you blunder,
like inside your head there’s a fire in the dumpster.
Your call to drink Lysol was a typical, deadly, Trump proffer -
your handling of the pandemic an incompetent slaughter.
In the face of unrest you pour fuel on the fire -
a dead BLACK man? You're a trouble amplifier.
Texting on Twitter you’re a liar and a punk -
when trouble breaks out, you hunker in a bunker.
You’re America’s undertaker, our commander-and-thief -
a living, breathing catastrophe - leading America disastrously.
I'm beginning to live most fully within my sleeping dreams.
I've started to hunker longer and longer
under my blanket trying to get back to that world.
Because, in the "real" world... or so they call it..
I find myself "waking" into forgetfulness
and disconnection.
Let me tell you about these dreams I've been having.
Nothing is hidden. People say what they really mean...
no matter how hurtful... and I find ways to deal with what they are saying...
because they aren't trying to hurt me...
they're speaking the truth as they know it
and I know that that's where they're coming from.
Here... in what many call the "real" world...
where, more and more, I see people walk around like zombies...
forgetful and disconnected... few people speak to me freely.
Let me tell you about these dreams I've been having.
More often than not we go around naked.
Most of us smiling. No one is hiding anything.
Why should we hide when we know we are all human
and we have all the same faults and limitations?
Some can do this better than that, but in the end we are equal.
Some do mathematics like a wizard but stumble with words.
Some have hearts that take in the whole world and still give in-depth healing.
Some can put their insights into understandable language.
This is the world I find inside my sleeping dreams.
This is the world I seldom find when most people think I'm awake.
I'm not sure how much of this "woke" world I can take.
Because here... in what many call the "real" world...
where, more and more, I see people walk around like zombies...
forgetful and disconnected... even fewer people speak to me freely.
I wanna go back... back to my sleepin' dreams...
these deep deep dreams I've been havin'...
where I can be me, where I feel truly free, where I believe all of us could be.
I'm beginning to live most fully within my sleeping dreams.
I've started to hunker longer and longer
under my blanket trying to get back to that world where all of us should be.
Every February fourteenth,
(reference Gregorian Calendar see
High Middle Ages his Saints' Day)
which combs thee
day after morrow aye decree
Tweedledum and Tweedledee
mine near one and same
mean mein near best buddy
donning Harris tweed plus sundry
other manifold couture to express free
expression like... once upon time
innocently naive barenaked lady
Chatterley young hippy feeling groovy,
albeit (think psychedelic) swiftly tailored
Harry styled vested gentry
twills nonetheless seam, née
upon aforesaid occasion intoxicated spree
formerly honored when animalistic glee
burst asunder courtesy biological key
hormones thawing lovely frozen bones
buzzfeeding, delivering, exuding earthy
primal propensities originally
linkedin with Lupercalia
nonetheless, encompassing various
animalistic, erotic, narcissistic... needs ye
not not necessarily be apprised,
where altruistic festive folk would easily agree
to hunker down no matter
sheepishness prevalent within
wooled wide web re:
guarding Islanders at their homes
Islands named total more'n three
amidst Lewis, Harris, Uist, Barra
and several pertinences, all fertile
like lasses christened Galilee,
yet all known as Outer Hebrides.
Now really as one ewe man
misanthrope to another I advise
Cupid doth surprize
god of desire, erotic love,
hoop fully experienced
before permanent demise,
where mortals whisked no matter
sullen sensate (human and/or other) being
vainly, morosely, and futilely cries
passion play his trademark guise
plus tell tale sign tear streaming eyes
(think head over heels
lovestruck gals and guys)
willingly yoking, where
(of quartz) romancing stone
temple pilot paunches face
(case toward albeit point yours truly) applies
young and old paramours recognize
steeped within storied mythologize
as one after another arrow
(whipped out quiver) guise
nocked, molded then loosed
courtesy once taut than slack bowstring
bedazzles lovers with stars
glistening in their lovestruck blind eyes
any unspoken inapropos prurience,
I eagerly, honestly, and readily, apologize.
The balcony bows like a bridge unmaintained.
Song birds are silent, their hearts uninspired.
Grape vines hunker down as if never trained.
Scarlet petals fall, their fragrance expired.
Shattered is the night sky like sharp glass shards.
Sparks, once in our eyes, liquify the ground.
Minstrels are mute in abandoned courtyards.
Pitter-patter is the refraining sound.
Masquerade faces can no longer hide
from the truth that beauty departs with death.
A dagger divides a young groom and bride;
lamenting cries consume their final breath.
The script is flipped over like clover in mud.
Misconstrued love poisons life-giving blood.
8-15-2022
Irma Sunday Evening
By Franklin Price
9/10/2017 - 6:22PM
For six hours we've been watching
The eye of Irma twitch
As the winds and rains around it
Are making life a *****
Since I last wrote her actions
She has twice come to the shore
As some have indicated
Here to even up the score
She landed last in Naples
Eye overhead on land
Was determined with her wind and rain
To make a gallant stand
The weathermen stood with her
She tried to blow them to the ground
They grimaced and they squinted
As they were buffeted around
She sucked the water from the bays
To make the tidal surge
Then when she would pass them by
She would open up and purge
The surge already happened
And it made Miami flood
Covering streets and highways
With much debris and mud
Although the eye was never there
Miami got the brunt
Got much more than bargained for
More than they could ever want
Irma keeps on moving on
Without a full blown eye
Left the lower lid in Cuba
Tore it off when passing by
It did not seem to matter
Her focus still not bad
She saw to pummel Naples
With the right hook that she had
She's headed for the city
With the Russian sounding name
Saint Petersburg is waitng
To see how Irma plays the game
Putin is not resident
Nor is the POTUS Trump
If they were she'd do the same
And kick the city's rump
Half blinded, getting old and tired
She's traveled very far
Still searching for new lands to hurt
Irma's now a fading star
Still can do some damage
Although she's hurt and sore
If you are in the path she takes
Should hunker down a little more
The wounded beast still packs a bite
With her surge and wind and rain
Still able to hurt and end you
Or at least to cause you pain
The moon hovers there, shining aloft,
its form the infamous crescent,
its glow so luminous as to reveal the rest of the orb,
oft-hidden when its time in the sky is not nigh.
Underneath, a fog coats the cold ground.
It floats eerily around everything in its path,
twisting here and there, suffusing the darkened morning
with a fell feel, secrets behind every bush and tree.
As my fellows and I trudge past a field to our left,
the mist reveals the obstacles we placed there afore;
in the sun, just part of training, procedure -
in these cruel environs, an ominous vision.
Barbed wire raises from a fence line
like the hackles of an angry beast;
threatening even we who emplaced it with its edges,
taunting our easily pierced flesh to embrace it.
Bunkers hunker down by the edge of the wood,
barely glimpsed openings once promising solace -
in this haunting setting they appear more as gaping maws,
showing to the world only a presence and visage of hunger.
Meant to hamper the enemy, defend those who built them,
on this macabre morn they serve more to menace their own.
Our bristling band hurries to pass that brooding breadth,
the horned moon vanishing at last from our unsettled sight.
Irma Sunday Morning
By Franklin Price
9/10/2017
It's a beautiful Sunday morning
In this North Carolina place
Watching Irma on the TV
As She's continuing her race
Our niece from Florida's with us
Wise to evacuate
Arrived here just two days ago
Today would be too late
Our daughter's here on Face time
With her daughter and her spouse
The effects of Irma's not yet there
At her central Florida house
Irma, the one eyed cyclops,
Is watching Key West town
While she's huffing and she's puffing
To blow some buildings down
She's searching for the foolish
Who have stayed and hunkered down
I'm praying she won't find you
She's a demon, not a clown
She soon will leave this tourist key
Not there just standing by
If you're any place in Florida
I pray you'll not see her eye
Supposed to hug the west coast
Looking for a place to go
Around her eye are winds and rain
Larger than Florida you know
Don't go out and look around
As she further ventures forth
We don't know she won't wobble
As she continues heading north
Don't be dumb sand foolish
Hunker down and you won't see
Your body getting blown around
Like dumb reporters on TV
The split level blinks
at Chestnut End under
twilight's tremble, ripping me,
the oily menhaden bait,
from the under boot
The Chestnut dwellers bold
interrogative flushes him down
then plunges-up the flotsam
village scrawler
the way you talk
to a blooming night blooming
to a blow-fish blown unsuspecting
of the scuttle, skating the wake away
The insomniacs billow from
their raged ranches, wisely,
and after supper, tumbling
the trickster tumbledowning
the scrawler, the baitster
dip-fished in his own inkwell.
Ripped and chipped
in my underbrush
I hunker down loading
the mossy mossbunkers
inside my spitball.
Kicking, winding up
tumbling down madly aiming
for the ramshackle fence,
escaping once again
in my handsome
lederhosen.
There were many unsavory jobs during the Second World War.
Some required guys to hunker down just a wee bit more!
None more so than "Tail-end Charlie" in the back of that old queen,
Known affectionately as the Flying Fortress, the B-Seven-teen!
Usually the smallest member of the ten-man bomber crew,
He was probably the most vulnerable target that ever flew!
Isolated in the tail end, genuflecting on his knees;
An appropriate position, imploring God with his fervent pleas!
Awakened from his reverie to face a day in the terror-filled sky,
Today's mission over the fatherland, nearly six miles high!
A Messerschmitt slides in to attack directly out of the sun;
"Charlie" sends him to eternity with a short burst from his gun!
Flak and shell around him would whistle, zing and hiss.
In his training days he was told there'd be thrilling days like this!
Nearly freezing, tho' he wore a bulky heated flying suit,
Ever alert, watching his six-o'clock for that enemy pursuit!
Jaunty but brave, this warrior winging thro' God's celestial dome,
Praying that he can fly his twenty-five missions and get safely home.
A grateful nation bestowing awards for laurels won upon his breast,
Home to his beloved America for a well-deserved rest!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
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