Long Hunky Poems
Long Hunky Poems. Below are the most popular long Hunky by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Hunky poems by poem length and keyword.
I've always asked myself is there a thing as fate
Is everyone not responsible for his or her destiny
If it were possible the future you could anticipate
If that were something that a person could foresee
Like the path that you choose to destroy or deviate
When your looking for home, a place of sanctuary
And it ends up being filled with emptiness and hate
But guess everyone can have a sense of uncertainty
i
I was told things you earn nothings handed on a plate
And remember not every day will always be so sunny
Don't make rash decisions try and at first contemplate
And yet again yeah it's that same old age philosophy
Another avenue taken though one would still desolate
Because your feeling lost and now you are so unhappy
Ending up in such bad way, that you are in a right state
Still looking for absolution, but if it were that elementary
,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,
But waiting in anticipation then just realising your too late
If you had ceased the moment, what could or may not be
Like that of an encounter like if you meet your soul mate
Was it just coincidence again one questions the irony
A mental image in your head a picture that you always paint
letting chance take its toll but not what you expected really
Again one being told at times perhaps its better to just wait
I guess that’s the element of surprise, apart of the mystery
Kind of like a part two to fate 98 and a bad case of nostalgia
with this im trying to close a chapter but also question
which I always have is there such a thing as fate
you know if i went down this road or this avenue
would things have been differed[nt perhaps if things were mapped-
out there would be no element of surprise
Perhaps just me being brought up again with so many mixed messages
uncertainty of everything it were like the movies a meets b an along comes c
and every thing is hunky dory but yeah its not reality inspired by other writes
and soup members written nov 2012,,,,,,,FATE,,,,,,,,,,,,,DESTINY,,,,,,,,,,,,CHANCE
I have been made mad before
With my clothes on my hands
Shabbily treated by children in the street.
My hair shaggy and rough.
YOu could see me going through the hoote-nanny
Smiling to every one that comes
on my way in a mischievous manner.
Then they sang the lost song of missing instrument and Bongo
And i dance stupidly in an open field crowded with fools.
They watched my buttock going higgledy-piggledy with no questions
I flagged off my clothes and let them see my bare chest
Swirling and twisting its Skin.
I have tolled every night and day upon the ugly mountains
With my back welcoming the dust of the ground in agony.
I have been pushed to the lunatic asylum because they thought
I was mad but your love made me drunk and insane.
Lyrically, my songs boomed and welcomed thousand children
Home to celebrate your bravery yet you seems not to
admit my effort as i sustain lumbago which made me lumbering.
I have embarked an arduous journey on the south west to obtain the
Roses and egg of life made for you in the land of the spirit
Because the priest confirmed you to be Ogbanje.
I have worked in the zoo, worked in the oceans, fought
the masked spirit and won for your sake.
Worked in the farm land where the monkeys mocked me
With their ugly black teeth abusing my personality.
I made the ridges with your names written boldly on it
To remind the birds and wild creature that it is
Untreadable land for a pretty damsel.
I have pronounce your names millions time with the parrots
Taught the toddler how top read your names on books.
I have become a hooligan and hoon all because of your love.
I have worked in the vineyard of the king as his servant,
Many maiden clutched to me and laid down their humble
Lives for my soul rescue but i denied them all of love.
Millions tears have i drooped for your sake,
Rebel against my flesh and blood all because i love you.
I am bound to your body by ardour love,
Love me so that every thing would be hunky dory.
Sadness was silly when I was twenty-three
Masked with a drink whenever it bothered me
When my head hits the pillow, it won’t leave me be
Curious what keeps it alive inside me
A lifetime of firewater banished from my diet
Thoughts I generate are deafening yet quiet
Some may notice and engage with defiance
A mere spark to the blaze of my self reliance
Day-in and night-out is the only time I dream
To escape the nothingness of my homemade esteem
T’was self-induced as I retrace the seam
Dreams are for suckers mister Martin Luther King
Three fort-years plus two, is the level I’m on
No cheat codes, or power-ups except for my Dawn
Thinking aloud that identity is needed
To conquer the beast whom the devil preceded
My mind is a television that goes back to this show
Like a car wreck, a rubbernecker will never truly know
Wipe the tears, chin up and let no one else know
The weaker use this for their selfish ammo
Without earning the title, everyone seems to judge
My productivity met with a smug-filled grudge
Know this now, I will never ever budge
From the path I’ve chosen so continue to judge
The smoke has all cleared and the mirror’s been broken
The bull discarded from what has been spoken
With steps taken toward Him, I feel more awoken
I now overlook fake-friends who’ve misspoken
Friendships lost and ties have been frayed
By the judgment and ridicule I sensed every day
Now strangers, not family like back in the day
I pray this new path won’t end in dismay
I’m now wide-awake, crafting my thoughts into text
Forever hoping one day He will grant me His best
Full-speed ahead on my unending quest
I pray that the outcome turns out better than my mess
I know not the purpose of this rather long story
Should be filed away in it’s own category
Forever in search of the true morning glory
But to the naked eye, everything’s hunky dory
Beethoven to roll over,
dee composing
(sans my zany brainy adherence
to "FAKE" information I eschew)
and essentially single handedly grew
the contemporary paradigm few
off fish shill educated
people didst swallow
hook, line and sinker, but perhaps
an enlightened gentile and/or Jew
found credulity linkedin with the then
far reaching somewhat sunnily
revolutionary antithetical concepts only
gull lib bull and/or cuckoo,
despite the logically
substantiated veritable true
lee near custom fit, hunky
dory, integrated metaphorical
interlocking puzzling pieces
rightly anchoring vast vista
(realm of known knowledge,
viz apple pi order)
shipshape motley crue foo
fighting banded divers lee distinct
whirled wide webbing
did not experience
smooth semantic sailing,
and rather recently
(historically "speaking") Renaissance
exuded approbation, and found substantial
adherents among cognoscenti,
who took to heart as gospel truth,
the expansive database
apropos christened Aristotéles translated
to mean Superior; best of thinkers,
whose missives dissected, inspected,
and probed for ethical, philosophical,
and rhetorical handy
dandy blues clue
meriting nascent outlook, sans salient
rubric quintessential pointing cue,
analogous to eternal spirit hovering,
guiding, and favoring new
acolyte, or stalwart
diehard Aristotelian hew
wing painstakingly, thru
prodigious tomes binding
ancient (classical Greece) via
Aristotelianism super glue
rebranded within modern roam'n Times
Font 12 visa vis,
when re: discovered
anew by Martin Heidegger
Ayn Rand, and Alasdair MacIntyre.
There ain’t never been much love ‘twixt them two out on the range—
Seems cowmen has always thought that them sheepherders were strange.
Then one day in rides a poke by the name of Tom Campbell—
What’s lookin’ for a job, if some outfit likes to gamble.
The foreman asked him straight out what is his experience—
He says he done some sheep herdin’ and he can mend a fence.
Well, that foreman was Bob Barkley – ‘bout tough a man there is—
He nods his head – says Jake will show him which remuda’s his.
Seems things went hunky-dory and there weren’t no call for lip—
Tom caught on fast, knew his stuff – but still smelt like ol’ sheep dip!
Then one night out of the blue, Tom tells us all he’s a Scot—
He’s proud of his heritage and the long blood line he’s got.
But it’s best some thing’s are left undone – they can make you wilt—
Yet what was Tom thinkin’ when next mornin’ he wore his kilt?!
They’s no prejudice in that bunch, but I sure confesses—
We ain’t too keen ‘bout them cowboys what likes to wear dresses!
Then big Bob Barkley - it seems he goes and blows a gasket—
And we is all sure Tom is headin’ for a pine casket!
“Manly cowpokes just don’t wear skirts!” Big Bob he yelled real vexed—
Then he kicked ol’ Tom’s tail bone from one mountain to the next!
Tom - he lived - though he limps from a break in his lower back—
But there sure enough is one certain thing that he does lack.
Tom done learned his lesson as he stares through the campfire smoke—
If something’s already fixed, don’t flaunt it or it’ll get broke!
And Barkley – he turned odd and wears Tom’s kilt like a scalped hide—
Sayin’ it’s how he keeps in touch with his feminine side!
I rush every morning holding my coffee .
I board the bus , checking my phone
I want no problems .
As mind prepares for hectic hours
some daring guy breathes on my ear,
questioning me for my IG .
beyond upset
I say : no way.
Another guy at 7’s platform wishes
the same ,
he’s fine ,
I give in .
I finish work and I feel drained
And again on the bus
Coming back home an old guy casually
gives me his number
and he says :-call me
I feel disgusted .
The next day comes.
The first guy stands in front of me
The bus is packed ,
and he tells me please give me your IG .
I feel the sin of my hypocrisy
so out of pity ,
I give in .
One minute later he is texting me
He likes my pics , he hearts my comments ,
OMG he is so extra !
I have to ghost him .
Three days have passed
He hates my guts , if looks could kill …
I would be dead tomorrow morning.
Then he gets salty
He writes I’m basic , and even chunky.
Then he posts selfies with his own shorty
That’s it !
I have to block him .
The hunky one , he booty texts me
I check my phone it’s 3:am
Asking to meet me
so we can cuddle until the sunrise.
Forgot to mention his IG contacts
are only women , with huge sweet bums
and scarce clothing .
I can’t reply I have my pride
hottie and all I have to block him.
And every day repeats same stories
of dummy guys
asking for something.
When I say no I’m nasty B,
if I say yes I’m nasty B.
Only cause
I ignore them.
As you can see I have my motives,
to my dismay this city is full of spineless men
Younger and older.
Still I have old pops phone number
I haven’t called him
Maybe I will , I’m very morbid .
f I come across as a bit critical,
about some subjects, religious or political.
this is all because the fact is I,
am a critical kind of guy,
when it comes to those who brainwash,
and spew out so much drivel and hogwash,
leading people repeatedly to disasters,
so those who spout it can be masters,
of all the Earth that they survey,
'don't do as we do, do as we say! '
Because they always say they have the answers,
these troupe leaders of Disaster's dancers,
follow them to the next global stage,
where they can act out their hate and rage,
whilst feeding the masses the same old story,
that our world will be just hunky dory,
all we need do is keep believing,
as they carry on with their deceiving.
So, yes, I am a just a wee bit cynical,
just as they are always very clinical
in their clever use of propaganda,
to sell the world their pre cast agenda.
It matters not where you live,
they are never ever going to give,
you the chance to be all you can,
or to live in peace with your fellow man,
because everywhere, those who hold the power,
look down on us from their ivory tower,
and conspire together to ensure,
that their dynasties remain pure,
and maintain their rule and future health,
by only allowing those of massive wealth,
to join with them to maintain,
their position in the power game,
and find new ways to exploit and use,
we see it daily on the news,
more people killed every day,
in wars that just won't go away,
because political and religious division,
ensures the planet will forever be riven,
unless there ever comes a day,
when the majority actually have a say,
and politicians have really, truly taken note,
and made the policies for which the people vote!
Hens and Roosters in the barnyard
living in symbiotic relationships
each searching for kernels of corn.
Taking turns with beaks they snip
scorned and pecked. What the heck?
How hard should it be to get along
even when some foul fowl are wrong?
Cockadoodle don't squawk at me...
Why can't you see
peace in the barnyard is a reverie.
Squawk squawk...scratch scratch
Roosters and hens don't get along
Farmer, unlock the gate latch
to free those who don't belong.
Don't scratch, peck and complain
when you don't garner fame.
There should be no pecking order
Don't point the finger of blame
when you don't know the root
from which the clawing came
or you'll feel the farmer's boot.
Don't be misled by words of ruse
from roosters or hens on the loose.
They're out to suck up the worm
in the early morning sun...
their charade has just begun.
Squawk squawk...scratch scratch
Roosters and hens don't get along
Farmer, unlock the gate latch
to free those who don't belong.
Don't tell me this is a fabrication...
of a chicken barnyard story.
This is merely an observation
of things that are not hunky-dory
Beware the fox, lurking near
feathers ruffled in the barnyard
Cockadoodle don't live in fear
of a fox, a wolf, a fraud.
Keep safe the eggs in your nest
Don't leave your children unguarded
Outwitting the fox is a test
One for which you'll be rewarded.
They squawked and squawked
scratched and scratched
Roosters and hens in the barnyard.
"Cockadoodle Don't Will Open the Gate,"
is the title to a new hen house song.
An Overview
When Villonia Beebe was a baby of three
She got it in her head to trim the Christmas tree.
She lit all the pretty candles,
Tossed the matchstick away,
Sister, brother, dad, and mother
Never saw Christmas Day.
Nine years went by, she bloomed, and when Villonia was twelve,
She got a yen for French and Greek and so decided to delve.
When her language teachers asked her
What she wanted to do,
Villonia taught those profs some things
The French and Greeks never knew.
She played the field with lots of guys but at age thirty-two
She thought to get herself a steady man was what she should do.
She tried out Toms, and Dicks, and Harrys,
And then settled, in due course,
For a handsome hunk named Homer
Whose nickname was "Horse".
They lived as wife and husband then for sixty-four years,
A life of trials and tribulations, lots of laughter, lots of tears.
Homer made and sold corn "likker"
From a still up in the hills,
And Vee would sometimes turn a trick or two
To help pay the bills.
The lovebirds made their minds up when they turned ninety-five
That they would live to be the oldest couple alive,
But time and sex and "likker"
Tend to play funny tricks,
Hunky Homer kicked the bucket
At a neat ninety-six.
Villonia is alone again like when she was three.
She's outlived most of her friends and family.
As she sits, and sips, and waits her turn,
One reflection seems to calm her,
When she's found she'll be so full of 'shine,
They won't bother to embalm her.
Knowshow
All nodes firing all the time
Shine on—the glare focusing the hacks
Everything shown
Everything known
Metamalice is good to go
It’s the Knowshow
The devolving snarkyskanks are trickling it to the remember-whens
Viral krankdaddies are upsiding leveraged retro to the never-thens
Bouce back ad hoc sheen pushing savvy slightlychic, and
IMing everything in between
The cool kids are cutting to the chase, like doing shots
As cloudcom whammybammy is going zzzot
Bigshotslick is doing the trick—whoa!
Samesex freakouts are dopingthevoid as emptyheaders go
highviolet virtualizing poppedculture catfights
And Snookinistas manning up on shortsnappysoundbites
Entries, log, blogs, crank
Swipes, clear, ratings, rank
And totals tally brandishing summaries and threats
Datasets pinging spreadsheets that chart, graph, and vet
Questions that haunt
Anomoyus reaches that taunt
Metamalice is good to go
Knowshow
Hotfuzz is on it,
down with hunky hybrid gamechangers and semioldies
Fauxfab tats fastforwarding uber payperview—totally
Dead weather nightwork resonating redbullbombs
Glamourama rehabing dumpster babes pushing that gleemy calm
The hypernext buzz does not fade
Barehands reving up trailertrash on standby radio and digital readymades
Lipreaders guided by voices counterpunch pink monkey trainwrecks
Luxurious VIP booths dangling the downtime any multitasker expects
Metamalice is good to go
Knowshow
Who knows
It’s the Knowshow