Long Hunks Poems
Long Hunks Poems. Below are the most popular long Hunks by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Hunks poems by poem length and keyword.
A Mystery of Love
Who can understand. Why would a person
sacrifice himself in such a way. Spat on,
slapped, falsely accused, deprived of sleep,
given no food, unquenched thirst. Hauled
before Pilate the Roman governor. No guilt found
but crowd cried for Barabbas, a murderer and rebel, to
be freed. No guilt could Pilate find, but the throng
called for His crucifixion. Scourged by Roman whips,
hunks of flesh torn and blood flowing in rivulets.
Crown of thorn smashed down on His head, blood
streaming into His eyes. Purple robes of a false king
draped around His shoulders. Forced to carry the cross
beam of His cross until He collapsed. Hand forged spikes
driven into His wrists and ankles. Stripped naked and His
clothes gambled away. Hanging in the hot dry sun his parched
lips cooled by vinegar wine. He cried it is finished and gave up
the ghost. His side pierced by a Roman spear to make sure.
A mystery to me why anyone would allow this to happen.
The only answer has to be love. God loved us so much He gave His
only son to die for us. Only He would consent to this and His ways
are beyond our understanding. His life for ours.
Story Of Click
Click falls silent
Sidewalks slide under ground
Bang is loud
Boom is not allowed
Authorization is required
When click comes down
Sun rolls red
Cry rises
Click falls short
The authorities are called in to sort it out
When click comes down
No TNT.... No motive
Nothing grows
Concrete does not bloom
It is not a flower
The last word they heard
Began with bang
Ended with boom
Underground are hunks of concrete
Which slid down with the street
And are most likely not a click
With certainty and absolutely not a click
Something sounded like a click
It went like this
It went “Click!”
Decade of my birth
All Show and No Go,
Ankle biters were Almost Home,
Baby, Ball and Beach bunny,
Brewed bread as Boxes Burnt one,
Even the Bad pipes Bagged some food for the brain,
Chilled the Cat as Chrome dome Caught some rays,
A Chick's choice,
Clanked, the Cool head Crashed,
Daddy's car was a Deb's delight,
Funkier freaks invited Fuzz,
Hunks jazzed,
Spiffy Nifty tufted together,
Generation gap, but Rents would go with the flow,
Wiz kids never lost their Wig,
Paper shakers went out of sight,
Real people with Righteous Raps and tuning vibes,
Mod shades, Rockin' out,
Off the wall and Ultimate,
Zap! You ain't too cool,
What say !Those were the times!
Written June 25th, 2015
For Debbie's contest "Talk the talk and walk the walk"
Decade chosen- 1960s
I, too, dislike poems.
I’ve tried runes (and rampikes)
but that’s affected
rather than merely effete.
So I call them
figments.
When people query
What do you write?
at a barbecue or birthday party
I say soliloquies,
fractals,
fragments.
Self-similarities,
singularities,
sculptures (scriptures), geometric shapes and series,
three dimensional triangles, spheres
and differential equations,
fractured fairy tales,
Rocky and Bullwinkle,
rectal impactions.
On the other hand,
bits, bots, bytes
remnants, scrap, earth
gobs of phlegm in grains of sand,
shards of glass in a slice of hell,
hunks and clumps, curds and whey, sleet and pain, slap in the face
sub-atomic particles, cell organelles,
chunks of energy, cookie crumbs,
rusty trucks stuck in mud, dustings for ghosts,
just plain dumb luck, rocks, concrete, but not tweets.
I can still smell Mom's homemade soup on the stove,
she always had a pot simmering for us kids to welcome us home;
it was made in this huge soup pot which I inherited,
old, and dinged but it is one of my favorite possessions.
She did not invent the recipe for this homemade soup,
it was passed down from her mom, and her mom;
not a complicated soup, the ingredients simple to obtain,
but it had a secret ingredient called love that made it special.
Comforting on a cold Canadian day after playing in the snow,
or skating on the pond or having a snow fight with my brothers;
or after walking home from school I knew the soup was waiting,
I helped my mom making it sometimes, I was the perfect dicer.
It is an easy soup but has a lot of vegetables to dice up small,
like onions, celery, carrots, there could be other vegetables too;
but Mom kept it simple for us kids, we added four litres of broth,
Mom made her own chicken broth (I buy mine) that simmers a bit.
Next we added two cans of crushed tomatoes, stir, stir it up,
after a bit we added rice, how much, well you be the judge mom said;
and simmer, until all the vegetables, and rice are cooked and blended,
she also added some herbs like basil, salt and pepper, and that's it.
I guess the most important thing about the soup is the memory,
of mom in the kitchen with her stained apron humming away;
she was happiest when she was cooking for her family,
I am blessed to have these memories to keep close to my heart.
Memories of mom making homemade Tomato Rice Vegetable Soup,
in that big pot and stirring in the love maybe that is why it was good;
we would eat it with big hunks of buttered French Canadian bread,
delicious, a tasty soup, a lovely memory of a gone away time.
~Merry, Merry~
Twas the night before Christmas and all around my house….
I heard loud footsteps,far heavier than even an overweight,mouse.
Irene, my calico cat,so high on good weed, snuggled in her bed.
While images of muscular hunks in speedos, danced in my old, poetic head!
When out on my lawn, I heard such a clamarous noise….
I wished and wished Santa brought me a sleigh full of boy-toys.
I decided to look outside and see what was the matter.
And, behold, the handsome fireman, who saved my life last week,
was climbing up the ladder!
The moon on his legs, gave off such a amberescent glow…..
I swear, it seemed as though I had snorted a big wad of blow!
He was so young, no grandpa was he, and not one wrinkle.
And those big, blue eyes, did far more than just twinkle!!
The crest of the moon on the new fallen snow.
Higltlighted,his muscular, gluteus maximus….
Far more, than you will ever be blessed to know!
He climbed down the ladder and inquired if I was alright.
I thanked him for the visit, and for my best ever,glorious,
Christmas Eve Night!
12/23/2024
No one knows,
where time goes.
The days slip to weeks and months
and male models no longer seem like youthful hunks.
I wonder where will I be
when twenty years from now, I'm ninety three.
In looking back these odd seventy plus years,
is revealed the all in both happiness and tears.
If health remains in check
I'll glad and happily look back.
After all this time, writing both prose and rhyme
I'll relax my bones though crackling and metering time,
Dustily collected in my poetry books
you can read about my decades of gobbledygook.
Clear in those poems you will find me hiding
in my garden spot still writing.
The grand, half-ruined Parthenon,
once a sublime, Doric grace,
Even now, in broken, stone blocks,
always takes my breath away.
The rich, classical detail,
fluted columns without plinths,
to imagine what it once was,
the mind can’t even begin…
That towering Coliseum,
the great masterpiece of Rome,
even half gone it’s staggering,
to be so tall, but made in stone.
Go down to the domed Pantheon,
still so perfect to this day,
these are not just random buildings,
they stand with something to say.
And those long, Gothic cathedrals,
so ornate and yet so light,
stained glass alone is enough
to make these churches a sight!
But all of that fine tracery,
those magnificent cravings,
the rows of flying buttresses,
inspire the soul to sing.
The Byzantines and their tiles,
Tudor masonry and wood,
Romanesque with its arches,
Art Decco looks oh-so-good,
Baroque with all its fussiness,
Victorians with their quirks,
Renaissance sports Italian flare,
Palladian’s subtle pleasures…
And yet in Albany, New York,
there stands the featureless ‘egg,’
That’s its name and its resemblance,
I am not pulling your leg.
No decoration, no windows,
as it stands there in the sun,
people call it ‘modernist,’
I call it ‘concrete abortion.’
Worse is the post-modern trash,
theaters shaped like hunks of cheese,
painted pink, spattered with portholes,
a mad-man’s monstrosity.
That is the product of our skills?
That is how we would inspire?
By building things that look like they
have been melted in a fire?!
They bulldoze down our heritage
to throw up more of these things?
And the big-wigs who approved this,
what the hell are you thinking?!
If these buildings of the future
are to have no beauty or class,
then you can keep ‘modernity,’
I’ll gladly live in the past.
A clatter of human hooves
drums on through an after- dawn marketplace…
the wide tunnel of mouths
reel from the splintered chorus
of jangled tunes bargaining and rattling
papaya, arabica and sushi roll orders: a fiesta
of succulent aroma whisks mid-air,
talkative faces sampling potent crops
on weaved baskets , hanging neatly
before slurpy hands condemn
them to boiling pots: the errant
noise loose like gander and hogs.
How much is this and that?
The slithering, crumpled bills drop
their tongues on purses scraped from
one week’s abominable toil.. oh, darting
fishes jerk their bellies while the array
of chicken hunks glaze under lights, frozen
and lumped from farmers’ harvest
rites... morning so luscious with grapes
colored velvet skin, lettuce tips
pulped by shiny green: and the procession
of lapping mouths reach head tone pitch,
dishes, dishes for salivating tongues,
taste buds for citrusy fruits, on one delirious
mecca to a market, market day!
......................
A Poem You Enjoyed Contest of Lewis Raynes
Entered 9/13/2016 (Old Poem)
M-emorable fourteenth September
A-ims to make you real happy;
R-emembering your birthday
I-s equivalent to an ecstasy.
V-ersatile fourteenth September
I-s also a multifaceted morn;
C-hunks of mirth and fancy brought fun when you were born.
T-hrilling fourteenth September
A-ims to excite your heart;
J-oyful feelings and cheers
A-re not going to depart.
A-mount of gladness is
L-arge for everyone to hold;
C-omplete comfort comes
A-s the dawn warms the cold.
N-ever forget the occasion,
T-ry not to leave the big day;
A-ttend the special affair,
R-apture takes the night
A-way.
T-otal pleasure and delight
A-re all given to your life;
B-rought brightness to your mind
I-s keeping you safe from strife.
N-otable shining moment remains to be good reminder;
G-reeting you in remarkable and memorable fourteenth September.