Long Linguini Poems
Long Linguini Poems. Below are the most popular long Linguini by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Linguini poems by poem length and keyword.
Hear the clip-clop of iambic beats
Sounds like Shelley with a side of Keats
Is that the scritchity-scratch of a goose quill flickin’
Or just the tippity-tap of some mouse you clickin’..?
So you a prophet poet, regular Marley meets Dylan
Writin’ about oppression and unjust killin’
Shootin' the Sheriff with a Reggae song
Inspirin' your generation with a sing along
A shot of tequila with a wedge of lime
Saddle up and bide your time
Every line don’t need to rhyme
I can give you a million examples
You don't seem like the lyrical type
Kickin' cold turkey with oranges ripe
That's the fruit that rhymes with nothin’
Fresh squeezed it's good for somethin’
Citric flashback, Tang for the brain
Hyperspace wormholes one cannot explain
Sun dippin' below the rim of a rhymeless plateau
Cow skull and cactus, a timeless tableau
In the twilight gloom, a weather-beaten sign
Free Verse Ranch is the place to dine
Gorge on rhyme-free wordplay victuals
Linguistic linguini and cage-free visuals
Specialty of the house: lemon chicken couplet
With a side of mashed onomatopotatoes--plop!
Gravy sloppin’ down slopes like molten lava
Washed down with mugs of fresh-brewed java
Buzzards circlin' the sky in a lazy ellipse
Moon moseyin' in for a total eclipse
Flee in the dark, take a steed for a ride
Jump the split rail fence to the other side
Leap back in time to a buzzin' hive
Looks like the vortex, circa 1995
Can barely think amid the din
Perfect time for the ‘shrooms to kick in
Tie-dyed girl where I left her spinnin' in place
Band still playin' a trippy Drums n Space
But how strange that I cannot feel my face
How did twenty years vanish without a trace?
Tumbleweed twirlin' down the rutted street
Empty rocking chair swayin' skee-reet skee-reet
'Taters still steamin' like a mini-volcano
Room reeks of whiskey stronger than Drano
Spilled orange juice tricklin' a fly-food slurry
Someone cleared outta Free Verse Ranch in a helluva hurry
The clip-clop of iambic beats, Sheriff on my tail
He wouldn't shoot an unrhymed man, would he?
At first there was nothing in the very distant past,
Then bang! There was everything, a universe so vast;
All splendid and magnificent, terrifying and mundane.
But before we knew all this, before we could explain,
About giant, burning, swirling gas balls,
And dark vortexes that swallow worlds,
Before we knew what made the light,
Our ancestors named the stars at night.
Polaris, leiðarstjarna, Sea Star, the Great Northlode,
not 424 or 308, not numbers and codes,
But the tail of a dog, the little bear's story,
The explorer's hopeful guide towards glory.
The heavens were filled with loved ones now gone,
With archers and lions, heroes and swans.
Every star had a story long before we knew
Their weight, their size, their age, their hue.
Without imagination, would the sky draw our gaze?
Would we ever see the Northern lights, its colors all ablaze?
We can feel the ground, we know it's there,
But we have to imagine the sky and the air.
Looking up, we watch the birds in awe,
Their graceful glides and swooping soar.
We are not birds; we know we cannot fly,
But imagination makes us ask "What if we try?"
So Leonardo draws a helicopter from imagination's sight;
The Wright brothers undertake the first plane flight,
Blimps and hot air balloons take to the sky,
and now man experiences how it feels to fly.
Every scientist already knows,
Without imagination no great idea grows.
From that first humble wheel to the latest Lamborghini,
From the first hot meal to the finest shrimp linguini.
From flickering candles to a bright electric light,
From using feathered quills, to keyboards when we write,
From burning wood and coal, to nuclear fission,
From dreaming of the moon to our first manned mission...
Knowledge helps us build a ladder, but can only go so far;
It takes imagination to reach for the stars.
She was one good looking chick
Straight out of Vogue, or a Spiderman flick
Her back was straight, she had that glow
Blonde hair, green eyes, healthy head to toe
And she had a fixation, that fixation was me
My heart jumped, I wanted to agree
But then I realized the attraction was an illusion
An evolution induced mental confusion
To exist our genes need reproduction
So they evolved romance, not to mention seduction.
I looked at her and thought "she may look great.
but she's descended from a monkey, a large-brained primate
And though what I feel may be infatuation
Internally, it's just a mental computation.
"Take away the hair, color the eyes brown
Remove your species privilege, you'll feel like a clown
Internal opiates, and a hormonal stew,
Without internal messengers, what is she to you?
So said to her "Babe, go back to your former beau"
Wasn't he Jimmy the knife, and wasn't his life low?
I just can't date you, after thinking out loud
I've lost the mystery, it's all a pall and a shroud
No romantic haze, no mystical link
The magic left your gaze, I'm just left to overthink.
She replied, "My Dad's is Vinny "the vacuum" Vortellini:
You say no to me, he'll make you into Linguini
You're my choice, and you must understand
Your opinion doesn't matter, you're mired in quicksand.
I looked at her again, I saw the psychopath beneath
But oh, that blonde hair, those eyes, and those perfect teeth!
I'm just a primate too, I realized inside.
So I jumped out the window and committed suicide.
So all you men, you need to comprehend
A lovely woman can bring an untimely end
It's all a trick perpetuated by DNA
You must transcend nature's imperative and disobey!
We are a tragic species caught between biology and mind
Don't let nature interfere, don't let instincts bind.
The 44th President “one who is blessed” in Swahili,
Happens to love his wife’s Shrimp Linguini.
His desk, in the senate office once belonged to Robert Kennedy!
Renegade Tried to make it in to an all black male calendar,
But was rejected by an all female committee.
He wares $1500 Hart Schaffer suits,
With one of his identical pair of size 11 shoes.
When the president stands up you never hear any boo’s.
A few good luck charms he has with him,
A Madonna and child frozen for eternity,
And a bracelet of the arm of a man fighting in Iraq.
Bar can lift an impressive 200 pounds wile lying on his back.
His favorite delight to drink is Black forest iced tea,
Wile looking at his red boxing gloves signed by Mohamed Ali.
But never ask him out to Baskin Robbins, he don’t like ice cream.
But if you gave him a chocolate protein bar his dream.
Hide any dog meat snake meat or roasted grasshoppers up high,
For all these things he has tried.
All wile keeping his dignified pride.
He gets a snip and a trim once a week cost him $21 dollars,
That’s real cheap thanks to Zariff.
In whom the Obomber confides in to talk about the week.
He mite have been the one who convinced the malotoe,
To trade his Chrysler 300 in for the hybrid.
His memoirs, Dreams from My Father won a Grammy in 2006.
He was o past war president that was left handed the 6th.
He left a stag party which had a stripper in 1996.
As a teenager he tried marijuana and cocaine,
And Berry collects comic books like spider-man and Conan the Barbarian.
His specialty as cook is chili,
His favorite TV shows are Mash and The Wire.
He has four places in a Chicago home to build a fire.
He uses an apple Mac laptop to look at Pablo Picasso art.
He has read every Harry Potter book,
I wonder if he spoke Spanish to his pet ape back in Indonesia.
pickle a paper and print paint playfully pointing pins
Knitting needles in a fish and chip shop is about as useful or as necessary as eating a soup with a spade. Dramatic are the arriving interludes of splashing drops of juice omitting from the clouds above. Circling is not just for dove it is also used by spotted leopards who never wear leotards anyway so never wave goodbye dressed in a bright pink tutu if you are otherwise engaged in deep conversation with a clown ship. Oh giant wrath from canned peas. Do you not understand that you are only allowed to speak when you are boiling? Yes. Boiling. Now good go to sleep. And stop banging. Bring no erratic iron to a visionary contemplation gathering at dusk. And into one melting pot there is always much lava so please wear a balaclava and smile over fifteen times at a flame. And wave. Wave. Go on wave. It is the grin from within a flamed fork that the beetle most admires. Very very proud species with a tale of tantric takeaways. Often a sideways dash off to a milder tent. And always ensuring that the levels of the ground in a swamp are correctly adjusted to reflect the size and the weight of all the passing wildebeest, hooked rhinos, hippopotami and the sponge cake. Right now go and drink eighteen ladles.of tea and make a donkey sound loudly. Hahah. Missionary mice making meat. Hahaha lettuce loving leaping linguini. And a peppered steak grin. Xxxx hypotenuse Z z z
Form:
You are the stuff my culinary dreams are made of.
Unending shapes and sizes.
From skinny linguini to the rounded orecchiette
and squiggly fusilli.
As my tongue tastes morsels of your saucy tubular goodness,
I compose a rhyme of the ancient marinara to atone
for my over-the-top pasta love.
Stuffed, plain, buttered. Swimming in Sunday sauce.
The tastiest were those plain whites I pilfered from the pot
before nonna caught me. Whack! with the wooden spoon.
It’s rumored my very first uttering was mangia – an oft-heard word
spoken by mama as she attempted to feed me.
“You’re going to turn into a rigatoni
if you don’t eat something else,” she implored.
Ha! If I were a rigatoni, we’d be cugini.
I only liked you, beautiful al dente you.
And semolina only, please. I accept no impastas!
You’ve been with me through thick and thin,
mostly thick ... around my hips.
Late night comfort snack,
midday bowl of depression-busting goodness.
The breakfast of strong Italian women!
You are Sophia Loren’s guilty pleasure.
Mine, too. With the emphasis on pleasure.
One bite and I am transported back to childhood.
Visions of homemade pasta drying on pristine
white flour sack towels tantalize my taste buds.
You, dear pasta, are la bomba.
My love for you is unending, until we all farfalle down.
Eating Clams
Should I go to my grave doing latest rave?
Or be a nice guy and myself do behave
And if writing poems is what it will be
They will be given to Poetry Soup for free.
Recently, returned to some of my old haunts
Which were made before the renaissance
Period of time when everything was changing
Reformation occurred and minds were re-arranging.
I always would know from the very start
Even though we may be many miles apart
There would be something about my writing style
Challenging you and putting your mind on trial.
On other side of hill grass often was greener
And could find me with all of my great demeanor
A poem desperately trying to write each day
Will send you to see what you have to say.
If you were one who called me a so and so
And my poems on you never started to grow
How was I to know that much later in life
I still would be married to my beautiful wife.
Next door neighbors both had hardly waited
Then together our anniversary celebrated
Read my poem drinking beer out of a cup
They calmly listened but kept clamming up.
Clams were of various sizes and steamed
while others were baked and cooked. Next
thing will be Clam Linguini. Wow!!!
James Thomas Horn
Retired Veteran
Tree branches bowed under the weight of the snow,
like penitents kneeling, as Christmas shoppers reveled
in the joy of the season. I left the house and struggled
through the snow-clogged streets to meet a man
I hadn't seen in years. He was the model of discretion,
a confidant. I could always count on his fidelity and trust.
I shivered, pulled the scarf more tightly round my neck,
and pushed my way through the milling crowds to await
his arrival. And there he was. The old familiar shambling gait,
the oft-worn brown fedora perched upon his head,
and suddenly I felt better.
I chose a dimly lighted tavern. We ordered drinks and dinner;
linguini and shrimp, a dish for which we shared a common relish.
Our conversation was tentative at first, until the effects
of the alcohol loosened our tongues, and we talked of Oxford,
days full of happy memories.
But later, as the evening wore on and the tavern's customers
left with errands of their own, we were left alone.
Silence descended. Thoughts of earlier in the day came crashing
down upon me. He sensed something was wrong, as he always did.
"She left me," I blurted out, sobbing uncontrollably.
He said nothing, and gently squeezed my hand.
Tree branches bowed under the weight of the snow,
like penitents kneeling, as Christmas shoppers reveled
in the joy of the season. I left the house and struggled
through the snow-clogged streets to meet a man
I hadn't seen in years. He was the model of discretion,
a confidant. I could always count on his fidelity and trust.
I shivered, pulled the scarf more tightly round my neck,
and pushed my way through the milling crowds to await
his arrival. And there he was. The old familiar shambling gait,
the oft-worn brown fedora perched upon his head,
and suddenly I felt better.
I chose a dimly lighted tavern. We ordered drinks and dinner;
linguini and shrimp, a dish for which we shared a common relish.
Our conversation was tentative at first, until the effects
of the alcohol loosened our tongues, and we talked of Oxford,
days full of happy memories.
But later, as the evening wore on and the tavern's customers
left with errands of their own, we were left alone.
Silence descended. Thoughts of earlier in the day came crashing
down upon me. He sensed something was wrong, as he always did.
"She left me," I blurted out, sobbing uncontrollably.
He said nothing, and gently squeezed my hand.
...dedicated to John Barrick Cecil
Tree branches bowed under the weight of the snow,
like penitents kneeling, as Christmas shoppers
reveled in the joy of the season.
I left the house and struggled through the cobbled streets
to meet a man I hadn't seen in years.
He was the model of discretion then, a confidant.
I could always count on his fidelity and trust.
I shivered, pulled the scarf more tightly round my neck,
and pushed my way through the milling crowds
to await his arrival. And there he was.
The old familiar shambling gait,
the oft-worn brown fedora perched upon his head,
and suddenly I felt better.
I chose a dimly lighted tavern.
We ordered drinks and dinner; linguini and shrimp,
a dish for which we shared a common relish,
our conversation tentative at first,
until the effects of the alcohol loosened our tongues,
and we talked of Oxford, days full of happy memories.
But later, as the evening wore on and the tavern's
customers left with errands of their own, we were left alone.
Silence descended. Thoughts of earlier in the day
came crashing down upon me.
He sensed something was wrong, as he always did.
"She left me," I blurted out, sobbing uncontrollably.
He said nothing, and gently squeezed my hand.