Long Lobster Poems
Long Lobster Poems. Below are the most popular long Lobster by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Lobster poems by poem length and keyword.
The barnacle is not what you may think
No mollusc this, no limpet dull and drab
It's lack of adult movement hides the link
To cousins like the lobster and the crab.
Hermaphrodite, a male and female phase
Alternate, and thus its offspring make
It's lifecycle is one which should amaze
What follows are the forms that it will take.
Nauplius. Expelled and floating free
Small and mobile, soft shell on its back
It swims with other plankton in the sea
Bottom of the food chain: just a snack.
Cyprid. In this stage it does not feed
It only searches with a sole intent
To find the roost and friends that it will need
Where it can stick itself down with cement.
So here we are: the adult that we know
Settled down and to its choice home bound
Mature it still has those wild oats to sow
Priapically, it still can get around.
You were never the sunset to me, but always the crimson hue veiling the sun; The subtle shyness in the eyes of a maiden wildly in love with the moonlit boy, her prominent lobster red cheeks when she was a blushing mess under his soothing touch. The sly smile lingering around her lips on her way back home, giggling on the reminiscence of the chocolate discovered under her desk, gifted by her ‘anonymously well known lover’; You kissed the sky, a final adieu while diffusing selflessly into the aqua ocean, deep into the underwater world. I would then dive into the ocean, searching for you, till the ‘deadly piranhas’ whisper into my ear, “She is no more a part of your world”. Maybe then I would weep like a widower but my transparent tears would be washed away by the ‘sun kissed ivory waves’.
My imaginary resturant is painted sky blue.
Please enter, let me entertain you.
There is soft music playing.
The kind I hope will get you swaying.
Each table has an ocean view.
Never booked out, always a few.
Smiling faces take your order.
The menu will include fresh lobster.
The house wines are oh so mellow.
Poured by a very handsome fellow.
The chef is Italian and sings as he cooks.
He has written a wonderful cookery book.
Wholesome goodness served with flair.
New dishes to try if you dare.
Delectable delights of delicious tarts.
Easy conversation before you part.
Linger over fresh ground coffee.
On paying the bill, offered a toffee.
How soon can we all dine again?
Let's meet you here next week my friends.
20/09/2016
OK another adventure in the mad poet’s life,
This occurred just before I met Jane, my imaginary wife.
Jane’s brother, Glen had set me up with a blind date
He said the girl was a stunner, I could not wait
So dressed in me stripe trouser with me chequer tank top vest
I oiled me baldhead and let the old spice do the rest
Off I went down town to meet Deglet Noor (that was her name)
Glen said, “If you see her lips you’ll want to kiss them more and more.”
Then I saw her, and dam what a blind date
She was lumpy like custard with an all eye seeing Rottweiler that made me fearfully
hesitate.
She looked like a bulldog chewing on a bee
And the Rotter was eyeing me leg as if it wanted to hump me
I thought to myself, give the girl a meal
Then we call it a day and that was the deal
She chose this uptown place where rich people dined
A French restaurant with snails and frogs legs, you know the funny kind
I had a steak, she had prawns and a lobster too
And she persuaded me by force to drink champagne form her trainer shoe
When she ate poor lobster it was a terrible gore
I wish she could have taken a tip from Sir Robert Hinshaw
When we finished the waiter brought the bill and waited for me to pay
£1500 bloody pounds, my bowels almost gave way
I said to him “We not finished yet. Could we have Ice cream and coffee?”
And I said “Oh and don’t forget the mint toffee”
Me credit card was on strike and would not handle that amount
It was time for me to exit time to get out
So when the waiter had gone I told her I was going to the loo
Said to her I needed to off load a number two
In a terrible panic I managed to squeeze through the window, hitting the deck
I punched the air shouting “Yes!” followed by an “Oh F-ck” and “What the Heck”
I had fallen into the kitchen and not outside you see
The head chef said “We built it this way to stop people like you stealing from me”
Five weeks on and 100000 dishes later,
If I stayed any longer I’m sure I would have been promoted to head waiter
Nevertheless, If you do come across Glen give me a shout
Tell him the mad poet is looking to blow his brains out
**For my sweet Delysia Hendricks who asked me to write this poem**
**Deglet Noor is a date that you eat if you didn't know**
The white lies of late December are upon us.
Frozen fish dream of warm tape water.
Every step is a cliff-top until April
then we surrender again to the telltale myths,
the cheerful fraudulence.
Only the old survive all this;
beautiful people wash-up on sandy beaches
create more buttery lobster commercials,
evening gowns drip like sequined icebergs.
The young are headlong as usual
and will not stop
until they mend us into their dreams,
they sew our jester hats
with a pitying love just as we did.
It’s impossible to regret anything
when the very ground under our feet
is begging for more fables, more of anything
to keep us going in a direction identified as forward.
We who still dispense the sweet nothings
of glassy-eyes wizards,
must be seen as fully clothed,
able to function on the old fictions
steady, and not sinking into our frozen boots.
Unswallowed lumps of lobster immodest
Crustacean returns to pincers persimmon
Waitress whisk indiscernible clears linen
Custom of one equates her eight hour day
Has It All Paul wipes away gourmet residual
Exhaustion frightened by frothy latte
Fingers in pies finance necromancer denies
Bulging funds fail to complete, coins conflict
Periphery rebuffs, enough is finite, endless leers
Goblet of gluttony grape broth overflow inflicts
Victim of vanished virtue, bon vivant declaration
Transmutes rules, outruns consequence
Guidance glued in buttery dough glides rhetorical
Yacht reined in quay quiver, another arrow for Cupid
Entertainment timed to change with shifting tides
Inglots tossed overboard drown in debauch
Drunk playboy Paul while vulnerable divulges
Disdain for greeds' steep scrag, perpetual pursuit
Outdo, prove prowess for those who never realise
Incongruent grapple for further forgets to cherish
Partners relent, resources force caucus to submit
Patronising Paul procures boardroom obedience
Inundating debt retards bombastic boon reward
Promise of association silences indulgent sin
28th June
Plenty Stimulates
Trump the Pump Truck Driver
By Franklin Price
11/09/2019
Trump is who we see he is, doesn't practice to deceive
Won the plumbing job, three years ago, was elected to receive
All the piled up defecation that was spread throughout the land
He has unclogged the toilets and the flushing's not so grand
Took the top off of the septic tank, it's not a pretty sight
The smell is overpowering, whether middle, left or right
Trump's the pump truck driver who was hired for the scene
He has gotten down and dirty, for sure he isn't Mr. clean
He put the hose deep in the doo, turned the valve, began to suck
Wasn't long until 'twas evident that he'd need a bigger truck
To clean the tank and drainfield and to make DC a part
Of the whole US's treatment plant. I believe he's made a start.
Congress fills its bellies, checks are paid for by the rich
Eating caviar and lobster; their elected life's a b...
When everything's digested and it's time to take a dump
They try to flush it all away, and blame the smell all on the Trump
For all of you in Washington, who are supposed to be our link
Who look down from the Capitol and think your poop don't stink
Get that thought out of your head, and quit all of your braggin'
Get out and get among us, and smell the honey wagon
Perhaps you should return to, that house with moon on door
With a wooden seat to hold you and a dirt hole in the floor
And after you've contributed to the smell that's evident
Move into the basement where all the solid waste is sent
What to look for?
Where do errors lie?
Are they in the eye of the beholder
or do they lie?
I believe I’m a poet,
a prophet of paraphrase,
a swindler of alliteration,
the rhyme above all reason.
I think I know!
Am I who I think I am?
A big fat ham.
My eyes wander -
cross-eyed thinkers,
blinking s.o.s.
How Do I Overcome Success
I
Mean
Mistakes
As big as a lobster-steak!
Have a stake in me.
Teach me your tricks.
Throw the stick —
I’ll chase it,
Bring it back and wag my tail,
With openness to learn.
Burn my bridges
— not!
Great Scott,
reel me in with a fishing rod —
take the hook from my mouth.
Throw me back in.
O Genie,
make me like Aladdin —
rich in words, like a Princ(ess).
Reveal that I am a fake,
so I humbly shake
the magic from my frame,
and become who I really am.
8/28/2019
Overcoming Mistakes Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Chantelle Anne Cooke
It's a salt water, sea
Water, popcorn town
Where the carousel music goes
Around and around
And the horses fly free.
To the karaoke's tide.
Someone grabs the gold ring
To win another ride.
A salty, buttery odor
Permeates the air -
Lobster rolls and fried clams
And pizza everywhere.
Mom and Pop and children
Still sandy from the shore,
Lick giant ice cream cones
That dribble on the floor
Boats of people party
Along the harborside
Others jam the shops
To browse and then decide
On souvenirs for family or
What to bring a friend.
Instead they buy a t-shirt
That sports an island trend.
The ferry line twists long
As people end their stay
But a boatload more of people
Have come to have their day.
This isn't a “resort”,
It's a tourist destination,
It's a little popcorn town,
Best place for a vacation.
A good friend died
I don't know who
A eulogy on the car radio said
He was a good friend to all
It begins to rain
On the road a raccoon family
Bodies strewn
According to size and age
The stripes remind me
Of holocaust pajamas
A lobster was killed for me
I watched it drop into boiling water
I didn't hear it scream
But a dog outside began to bark
The dark red restaurant
Yaws like a Spanish galleon
Rain spattered windows
Crash through a squall
Driving home
A voice:
The rain will end everywhere shortly
When the rain doesn't stop
No one says anything
Later that night
Bedraggled birds fly
Through pennyweight eyes
Hermit crabs move on
To broadcast lies
To their empty shells