Long Kazoo Poems
Long Kazoo Poems. Below are the most popular long Kazoo by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Kazoo poems by poem length and keyword.
She is creative, but she keeps it under her face.
Wearing masks before this Covid-19 disgrace.
Her imagination parades around at three a.m. some days
Her muse blows a kazoo and throws poems her personalities' ways
She knows her power, but tries to look unassuming and old.
She keeps her opinions to herself, for they are blatantly bold.
She has friends she has had over sixty years.
She is wise enough to know, they each have their own fears.
She used to try to rescue people as if she was a fairy or an elf.
She has finally learned the lesson that others must save them self.
She is a wife, mother, and grandmother to children who number ten.
She writes poetry, cartoons, and paints. Has paintings to her chin.
Brahms pushes a piano into my ear.
I hear the stool creak as he sits.
He does not introduce the music,
he expects me to remember it,
know it, eat it.
He lights up a Havana,
clarinet and violin cough
inside a woody cochlear.
Viola takes hold
of a long nostalgic ligament
loosening a stirrup bone.
Bearded old Brahms
shifts from one large butt cheek
to another,
chords shudder
the music trans-locates us
as we share the lingering hint
of Bratwurst
on his nicotine stained fingers.
Not being musically trained
I am grateful
to accompany a cello and viola
on a kazoo
shaped like a nose.
Words appear on a page but I see them not
I am in a foul mood, and determined to keep it.
There is ugliness afoot, in my mind of minds.
Halfheartedly, I pick up my I-pad
Poised to play an hour of scrabble games
My avatar looks incredibly silly
She has purple and blue hair, and she has a kazoo.
She is wearing a number one on her chest.
I stare at her, she is as weird as I am.
She sticks out her tongue, which makes me mad.
I am the ruler of this at least.
Anyway, I think so.
I stare at my letters and rearrange them.
Prkgoda what the heck?
I am too irritated to come up with dog or park
Mad as hops I play a two letter word for five points. Pa.
I once knew a lady from Seattle.
When she stole my heart,
I was a horse without a saddle.
With long blonde-brown hair
And a devilish grin,
She smelled of baking
Powder and cinnamon.
That's no jest,
She bakes the best,
Though kisses even better
(On the nights we find a sitter.)
Oh, she'll ring your bell,
But, alas, gentlemen never tell.
Six years wed
The wild joy of children
Pulled in a sled,
Crying and laughing,
Stomping and romping,
And that's just us,
As lovers,
As partners,
As friends.
Stepping into the future
With you in hand,
Is a wonderful miracle
of madness and love,
support and struggle,
sandwiches and sandwiches.
Suddenly hungry,
I've lost my rhyme.
Not to fret, though,
My love I have found in you,
through you, as we breathe as one
Along our endless laundried days.
Like a deleted lovers scene
From the movie "Lagaan,"
We sing and dance for the other
Laughing into the sun.
Happy 6th Anniversary, Babe,
I repledge my love to you.
My heart is a duck parade
And your the kazoo.
My muse Trixie is always raring to go; she writes while I sleep.
I know because upon awakening I hear a poem often.
The last couple of lines anyway, which is truthfully rather exasperating.
She has favorite words of which I am sick.
Dancing, prancing, twirling, whirling, are some of the verbs she always wants.
Do we have to use it on corpses and gargoyles? I ask.
She insists on her own way, which explains my fear of her.
Does she ever inspire me?
I am wracking my brain, thinking hard now.
My dendrite highway has completely shut down.
I am trying hard to think of the last time she inspired me.
Possibly today when we wrote twenty poems I do not remember writing.
She takes over when she wants. I am putty in her hand.
Not sure she inspires, but she surely runs the show.
She is in charge.
I am her pawn - a peon, a Plebian.
She is blowing the kazoo and dancing now.
Extremely happy that I have recognized her power over me.
Maybe when I awaken from my slumber in the morning
Trixie will let me remember more than just the last line of a poem.
diploma acquired magna cum laude – double entendre
Xlv years elapsed since
I (former long haired pencil necked geek)
bid alma mater adieu,
the quietest kid, who never said boo
nobody discerned handy dandy blues clue
what yours truly thought,
cause figurative blanks he drew
remaining quiet as a Unitarian church mouse
never uttered a dog gone peep
extrovertedness he did eschew
even now two score and five years
after donning mortarboard and gown few
and far between words spoken
courtesy me, a former
Norwegian bachelor farmer
Lake Wobegon mine imaginary home
solely without friends grew
impulse to become linkedin
through schizoid personality disorder
offered solitary existence
alone within emotional wilderness hue
cannot imagine loneliness
(analogous to be bajillion miles
from nearest neighbor
while housed within igloo
mattered not whether gentile or Jew)
at tender growing up age obliviousness
suffused every cell constituting
Matthew Scott Harris
interestingly enough yours
truly quite outspoken
thru dimpled cheeky
adipose characterized kazoo
flatulence courtesy pop slop
incorporating secret ingredient
intended to ward off licentious
pheromone exuding females loo
sing hormonal secretions,
anyway said unmentioned
quite tolerant spouse,
(who remained faithfully
married enduring quarter century)
despite incessant husband
buttuck blasting - courtesy moo
ving odoriferous soundcloud waves
issuing ass him tote across avast spatial plane
resultant impact on par with nu
cull lee air fallout ooh
noxious human air pollution pu
tress hint smell as natural deterrent
to sexual reproduction, nevertheless
semen aligned (alphabetically
by athletic prowess) think queue
wee warriors able, eager ready and willing to
increase chromosomal revenue
blaring semper fidelis
as lucky sperm pierces zona pellucida
wee acted screw yule us,
when call of the wild – bald truth
found me to ejaculate and spew
sticky goo, and stopped reproducing
after daughter number two
me unbiased, but both offspring
attractive in their papa's view.
I saw it in one of those chintzy antique shops.
I recalled that it was made for travelling musicians
that wanted to work out scores while not being overheard.
It was old and all wood. When I tapped the keys
they clacked, but each key to me seemed to clack
in a slightly different tone,
as if the pianist’s thoughts and intentions
had somehow imprinted
a musical counterpart into the inarticulate wood.
When I got it home
I propped it up against a wall, poured myself a drink
and thought what a fool I was.
The ice cubes in my bourbon tinkled unmusically.
I stared at it.
‘You can’t even play a kazoo you idiot, what the …..!’
Later, a little drunk,
I took it up and placed it on a table,
stretched my stiff fingers and played.
I played like I had never played before!
This was real, not an air-guitar thing.
Chopin and Mozart flowed through my hands
as I sped through deft keyboard exercises,
labelling quarter and eighth notes, dashing off
aurally different meters,
executing perfect pitch and phrase.
After the warm-up I was ready for my public.
With much élan and gusto, I thundered through
a dramatic First Movement.
The Andante I performed next was hauntingly beautiful.
I swayed on my stool in a deep artistic trance.
An invisible audience gasped and yes, they stood and roared
their approval, as the last note of a sonata I had
just composed, concluded a fiery Allegro.
Tomorrow I intend to jazz-duet with Oscar Peterson.
Man, it’s good to be dumb.
(Intro)
Yo, I got scars on my knuckles and dreams in a duffle,
Life gave me lemons, I sold 'em in a hustle.
Mandy said “swing by,” I said “bet,” no delay—
But what happened next? Man, lemme just say...
---
Verse 1
Mandy told me to stop by, I pulled up in Crocs,
Knocked twice, no answer, just a squirrel throwin' rocks.
Saw a van in the back, lookin' shady and mean,
Used a pry bar like it’s part of my hygiene routine.
Next thing I know, red dots on my chest,
FBI yellin’ “Freeze!” like it’s a dance contest.
I said “I’m cold already,” they ain’t laugh at the pun,
Did five years in the pen—now I floss with a shiv for fun.
---
Verse 2
Got out, still mad, still that Mangy old pitbull,
Named “Chaos,” got a grill and a GED, real cool.
He bark in Morse code, talkin’ ‘bout stocks and bonds,
Taught me crypto in the yard with some ramen and tongs.
Now I’m back on the block, wearin’ ankle bling,
Got a parole officer who raps—calls himself “King.”
We do drive-bys in a Prius, eco-friendly thug,
Still livin’ that street life, pitbull cuddles and hugs.
---
Verse 3
I got a tattoo of a toaster, says “Bread or Dead,”
And a mixtape droppin’ soon called Felony & Fred.
I sell dreams in Ziplocs, hope in a can,
And I once got arrested for moonwalkin’ in a traffic jam.
My ex said I’m toxic, I said “Nah, just seasoned,”
She keyed my car, I thanked her—now it’s art, no reason.
So if you see me in the alley with a kazoo and a mug,
Just know you met the legend: Street Life Pitbull Thug.
...To Save Strays Deserve Lagniappe
Ruff lee, e'er since
aye waz za lil whippersnapper
watt wit dis awful temper, yet
obedient to a pooch loving Aleut
til present moment, Asian ole mangy coot
this hot day (woof faux pas
dipping into animal shelter
donated water bowl)
filled to the brim with smoothie fruit
flavored slaking, moistening, cooling,
sans lallygagging tongue
doth wipe phlegmy ooze away,
where nearby a kazoo
playing labradoodle
accompanies mum
muttering prettifying self,
via quasi preening snout
when squeezed
automatically issues
honky tonk sound imitating hoot,
where passerine twittering
fly night passersby
toss bone fied token loot
and a Norwegian
bachelor farmer named Knute
Rockne took immediate
liking to yours truly,
who when scratched
itchy fur patches remained mute
imparting unconditional love
to petting man's best friend
hoof right then and there
Isaiah felt as top underdog
momentarily distracted
Fermi n Rico as petsmart necessary fix
reduced to that as newshound junkie
oft times in desperation
shine shoes ala boot lix
usually rewarded with bona fide prolix
about such a docile mix
breed to old for chase sticks
to learn super champing cheap tricks.
Jasper’s tale of woe, he tended to completely embellish,
Until these stories got worrisomely-gruesome, some even hellish.
Agnes, his wife and he were no longer invited to parties, yours or mine.
His wife was relieved, but Jasper, the story-embellisher started to whine.
Maybe we need to be a bit more entertaining, she suggested.
So they began several new hobbies, neither one of them contested.
They learned yoga, and karate, and Agnes learned to play the kazoo.
He learned roller blading and hopscotch, and brought home a digeridoo.
They realized suddenly, after learning all these things, and without a whit of sadness,
To want to be friends with the dull neighbors on their block was simply a silly madness.