Long Knobbly Poems
Long Knobbly Poems. Below are the most popular long Knobbly by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Knobbly poems by poem length and keyword.
I need a recipe for instant happiness,
For all that are feeling sad
I'd start with a ray of sunshine
That doesn't sound too bad
Next, a sweet smile
Or a baby's toothless grin,
It stands out a mile
As you start to mix it in
This happiness recipe
For all to feel and see
It needs a pinch of wit
From all the family
A cuddle, Hug and kiss
That would be hard to resist
The tapping of feet
To music loud and clear
Someone shouting "Cheers,"
As he handed around beers.
The sound of a piano
A kitten on the keys
An old gentleman dancing
With bow legs and knobbly knees.
A friendly Hub Hub a buzz of happiness
That would be an excellent start for the recipe.
I guess.
FLOWERED TEACUP IN SPRING
My heart lies vacant
to vulnerability, voiding into
a warm womb
of larvic rebirth
October ruptures orange octagons
pregnant with pretensions for balmy bathings
cock proffered a fiery feather
to a gaping garden gate
Hot white descends metallic
blue a dappled dance darting penetrates
washing machine mumbles
garbage collectors grumble
Noon consummates to hasten tasks
tarrying towards an amber throated afternoon
flowered teacup stares
a knobbly knee-jerked knock
I crystal circle a cobalt coming containing
wizened eyes of warted beggar
into pink palms of a purpled
garmented galactic guide
Shame laced in my DNA spiral
wrinkled its parley presence
I omitted some rooibos teabags
just jackfruit jam with half a loaf of bread
Missed a moment of silent saluted seeking
though pass two score and ten
Still I cannot read a …
Flowered teacup in spring
©GhairoDanielsPoetry
&Songwriting2023
SENSE PLEASURE
Red honeyed apples
autumn leaves dewed
****** merge with sun streams
whilst children sleep dear dreams
Bobbing bubble baths
yogurt on hot chilli pie laughs
smell the sour dough
nourishment oh oh oh !
Blue moon paints front stoep
knobbly hand whispers stories
of heritages and future glories
skin ripples aptly rapt
Prancing clean laundry dance
mother’s milk in melting mouth
puppy grovels dirt digging south
sound frequencies simmer smoothly
Von Gogh sunflowers float in
mental notes skipping
Mozart phantom pianos airwaves
come dine alive then to jive
Pleasure finding the lost gazed
glance glimmer with God at no cost
Earth to Heaven find
THE JOYOUS JOURNEYED CONNECTION !
©GhairoDanielsPoetry&Song
2000
There was an old dear
She is no longer here
As one day she fancied a bath
Her son said, she was too old for all that
To shower instead and don’t be so daft
A cantankerous old biddy
And ignoring his pleas
She began to feel giddy
And sunk to her knees
The pain it was awful
She could not get out
Tears welled in her eyes
As she started to shout
But no one was there to hear her pleas
As she tried to kneel on her knobbly knees
And the poor old dear
She is no longer here
She was finally found
In her bath - she had drowned
So after the age of seventy
Try not to act too rebelliously
Do not cause a furore
See the moral of this story
If you don’t want to drown in your bath
Leaving others with the aftermath
To die in your bath is not a pretty sight
As when you are found you will look such a fright
All wrinkled and red, as you will be dead
So listen when told if you want to grow old
No bathing for you, try a shower instead
30th September 2018
EARLY POEM CONTEST
Sponsor Brian Strand
I need a recipe for instant happiness,
For all that are feeling sad
I'd start with a ray of sunshine
That doesn't sound too bad
Next, a sweet smile
Or a baby's toothless grin,
It stands out a mile
As you start to mix it in
This happiness recipe
For all to feel and see
It needs a pinch of wit
From all the family
A cuddle, Hug and kiss
That would be hard to resist
The tapping of feet
To music loud and clear
Someone shouting "Cheers,"
As he handed around beers.
The sound of a piano
A kitten on the keys
An old gentleman dancing
With bow legs and knobbly knees.
A friendly Hub Hub a buzz of happiness
That would be an excellent start for the recipe.
I guess.
Previously submitted
According to a 1975 article published in Winnipeg Press, those 3 stones, found in Eastern Townships of Quebec, serve as evidence that Phoenicians embarked on a treacherous sail across the Atlantic, reaching North America well over 2,500 years ago.
***
He wore a purple dyed robe and bantered softly with the sailors
as they navigated by the light of the stars
with cases of wood and glass tucked away at the base of the boat
including a thousand biblions from the City of Byblos;
The papyrus sheets filled with hurried sketches and mad scribbles
sat on his wood desk. He was on his way to Canada, what could stop him now
Six Mysterious Stone Orbs appeared in the sky overnight
at first appeared that they were just ornaments
But then the sun, fog and rain set in as he touched each stone
The knobbly Orbs were massaged and rolled,
it appeared these stone orbs had magical properties
One was made of sodalite, one of marble,
the other four had strange substance and texture;
It was an eye-opening journey through history and culture
that almost didn't happen, if it weren't for the timely effect
of one Turquenite Blue Howlite Gemstone Orb that blazed
sending Mysterious Gurdian signals to the Galaxy above;
The mast began to shake with its isignia of Orb and Sceptre
as if to say, hang on I will transport you in time,
as a large massive portal appeared he went through.
He made it to Canada, who knew ?
Hairy Mary, really scary
Hairs grow from her nose
Some sprout from her pointy ears
And in between her toes
She's got hair on her fingers
and her one remaining thumb
I can't confirm the rumour
That she's got a hairy bum
A hair grows from the mole
That is sprouting from her chin
Her wicked eyes are purple
And her nose is bent and thin
She said some funny words to me
when I was just a boy
And waved a knobbly stick
Like it was some magician's toy
She said that she was turning me
Into a slimy frog
I told her she was bonkers
And I'd rather be a dog
For witches live in fiction
But my theory has a glitch
I called her lots of names
And then my skin began to itch
I said she was a daft old bat
She didn't get the joke
And now I find it hard to speak
But easier to...
CROAK!!!
seductive Galway gal would not stay
such savage beauty she went astray
whether Corrib, whether Mask
Connemara man to ask
to Inishbofin she played away
Leitrim lout took drink by the flagon
very short coast, very short wagon
went inland to buy a boat
all-aboard, beer for his goat
so raised a glass, Carrick-on-Shannon
wild west playboy from county Mayo
did for his dad, very own say so
holy mountain, dreaming star
left the pub at Castlebar
shoe hanging out his Ford Mondeo
Roscommon culchie, gangly and rare
hung out near Boyle with spindly long hair
web below her knobbly knee
bank to bank across lough Ree
wrapped up her men, eight legs in the air
our Sligo boy, no good at countin'
he spied some girls down by the fountain
one, two, three, how many more?
his favourite to adore
he chased her up Benbulben mountain
On his little growling tractor, he drove between the wheat;
with a straw hat on his mullet head and the pedals at his feet.
A shiny red John Deer - perfect-sized for such a boy
with a clanking diesel engine - this was more than just a toy.
And slung across his cotton back, his airgun seemed to aim
at the bright blue lowveld sky - and ‘Choppie’ was his name.
He crossed into the tobacco of Van Niekerk’s farm next door.
He passed their old iron windmill, then their barn and tin feedstore.
She was waiting by the naartjies, several peels by her bare feet,
with her doll across her knees and an oil can for a seat;
He cut the engine, smiling. ‘How’s it going, dear Poppie?’
She tossed her corn-silk hair. ‘Voetsak, chip-tooth Choppie!’
Her skin was caramel; she had freckles across her cheeks;
Her nose was small, her eyes were green as the moss where the farm tank leaks.
‘What can I do for you, my sweet, to show my love today?’
‘Either shoot me a dozen muisvoëls or drive yourself away.’
So he took his little rifle, and soon its sound was heard
as he hunted through the orchard for the small grey-crested bird.
But when the job was done, and he delivered the bodies to miss,
she refused to even count them and he didn’t get his kiss.
‘Kill ten rats from the barn, and then we’ll hold hands, Choppie.’
As soon as said, he went to shoot a sack of rats for Poppie.
She said, ‘I’ve changed my mind. Your hunting’s not enough.
Dead birds and rats are rubbish; and a girl wants shiny stuff.’
She then looked past his shoulder at his beautiful machine
with its tall black knobbly tires and its candy-apple gleam.
‘Give me your nice red tractor and you can kiss me on the cheek
and dance with me at the festival near Loskop Dam next week.’
Now setting the price too high and playing too hard to get
will leave you lonely on a can and feeling some regret.
For there are many farms in Groblersdal - and girls who know the way.
A boy who shoots for love will live to woo another day.
So Choppie drove to Meisie’s house to see if he could attract her;
while Poppie learned you cannot take the farmer from his tractor.
The Blackpool donkeys have given up:
they have boarded passenger jets -
to be emotional support animals.
Once they used to plod from Blackpool pier
half a mile up, half a mile back,
day after day,
carrying kids and plump matrons.
In a dull daydream the donkeys moved
with downcast eyes,
plodding until exhausted.
Now the donkeys have retired,
when not flying
they surfboard on Hawaiian waves.
their Bermuda shorts billow,
tailored as they are for four-legs.
Those that once rode them
on that uncultured British beach,
now take river cruises
to the more refined European cities
and hardly now ever see a donkey,
but if they do
I hope that for a moment
they feel a knobbly donkey spine
roughly slapping their
tender time-worn *******’s.