Long Lolled Poems
Long Lolled Poems. Below are the most popular long Lolled by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Lolled poems by poem length and keyword.
Why do other people go into a store?
I have no idea,
But when I go in,
It’s a resale store, and I’m
There to buy something.
I don’t care if it’s a stuffed antelope
With an orange neon butt, and a grin
That makes me chuckle, and God forbid if
It makes me laugh, because
If it makes me laugh,
Into the cart it goes.
I usually fill up one red plastic cart, and
Check out, run back in, and
Fill up another cart, before
My daughters know I’ve started
Filling up their side of the car,
Amazing the clerks, but
Not my daughters.
In 1985, during a little
Weekly Saturday Caren wants to go
To all the garage sales in the state day,
I ran over a squirrel and we
All cried.
But we laughed again after
taking all of the furniture
And the bass boat out of
The car, to re-load so we could
Squash in a 9 foot giant stuffed lion
Whose big half-on head lolled out
Behind my headrest, waving in the
Driver’s window at oncoming
Traffic for a couple of towns or two.
My two youngest, happiest
daughters were
Laughing all the way home.
I think we sang too,
Leaving out all the words
I did not know, but at the
Top of our joyful lungs.
The 13 year-old daughter
was not with us, of course, as I was an
Embarrassment to her those
First 20 years.
What a great day!
A Caren Garage Sale
Frenzy day.
I live for those.
It stood; oh so large, round, and pretty pink,
a singular morsel, a missing link.
Arched and quite firm, a culinary treat;
this ripe, randy, raucous piece of pink meat.
The diners sat making naughty noises;
jaws dropped, tongues lolled, not a bit of proud poise.
And, all ‘bout the table gasped in despair,
the fear, the horror, would they get their share?
They'd thought of other uses for that sweet meat
Though what 'twas in there minds, I'll not repeat.
Men paled, lasses flushed, it was quite clear,
As a sharp edged blade was brought to bear.
Eyes covered, groins grasped, lasses faint all round,
Observing the slice, the Lord's knife bore down,
Then, with a broad smile, he mimics a clown
and passed luscious pieces of sausage 'round.
It looks almost full or half empty.
A pregnant bulge
something firmer than a sandwich
less firm than a brick.
A dirty diaper?
Something worse?
Once I found a dead parakeet
wrapped in a discarded paper bag,
when I dropped it in disgust
its head lolled out,
one dull eye fixed upon
the space I had just left.
The paper is mottled by damp winds,
stained as if hands had clutched it
too long.
Here it is, a sore thumb
in an deserted parking lot.
Poked the bag with a nudging toe,
unsure, circle it apprehensively.
Decide at last
when something's too big
to be left behind - yet is left behind,
then best to leave it
bloody-well alone.
analogous to expending precious Air Supply
embellishing, modifying, revising, et cetera
a poem crafted about fourteen months ago.
I take stock and revisit good ole days of yore
quite conscious undeclared state of war
prevails within body (Electric
Light Orchestra) of troubadour,
whereby creative juices did perforce pour
forth as if sung by one man koor;
now he haply seated at his Macbook Pro
today April 29th, 2022
accompanied with Christopher Robin,
Winnie the Pooh, and Eeyore.
Since January thirteenth of this year
(two thousand and twenty two),
yours truly suddenly feels
long in the tooth, i.e. auld,
he whose decrepit body and
gnarled hands ice cold
senility and senescence doled
rigor mortis virtuous vice grip extolled
coronavirus (COVID-19) motherlode
courtesy geomorphology dynamism fold
analogous to discovered vein of mined gold
grim reaper with scythe doth silently infold
(in Old English, scythe spelled siðe)
ore yonder church bell knolled
anonymous beat nickles less,
dime a dozen, day late
and dollar short sexagenarian
dropped out of Culture Club
(any strong resemblance between said poet
whose Grateful Dead head lolled,
and once living person purely coincidental)
death and decay, I lichen to mold
meself finally nill and void nolde
of unwanted excessive fleshy flab
scant personal possessions outsold
to highest bidder polled.
Dead weatherbeaten and fatigued soul
with absolute zero regret
no longer being alive,
immortality impossible mission to connive,
especially when endurance and stamina
took kamikaze nose dive
formerly earthlinked buzzfeeding
desiccated honeycomb hive
in tandem with former anxiety riddled psyche
need no longer worry
his existence perfect example
how hardship did misthrive
death be not proud penultimate quest
since adolescence (think anorexia nervosa)
he did (unsuccessfully) strive.
A pregnant bulge
with an angular stretch and twist,
something firmer than a sandwich.
A dirty diaper?
Bundles of illicit dollar?
I once found a dead parakeet
wrapped in a discarded paper bag,
when I dropped it in disgust
its head lolled out,
one dull eye fixed upon
the space I had just left.
The paper is mottled
by damp roaming winds,
stained as if hands had clutched it
too long.
It's not time yet to be a scavenger,
but in a few moments
I might nudge the bag with
a hesitent toe.
Or I might return later,
sneak under the low clouds,
that often gather
when something too big
to be left behind –
is left behind.
The new season did just start at last
slowly crept shedding its past outer
winter integument. Displaying
proudly attracting meticulous
attention with its graceful stylish
semblance. Scent of delicious greener
with elegant chromaticity,
art gallery of nature's sailcloth.
A wheelbarrow, pruning shears, shovel
and hoe parked in the backyard near a
blooming fuchsia bougainvillea
needing a trim. It frames a bedroom
window drawing attention as it
stalks up the red concrete brick tangled
with a lolled white sweet-scented jasmine
vine as it scans the highest rooftop.
A flicker of movement behind the
spiky thorns and fuchsia blooms a green
lizard scampered up the wall and vanished.
3/26/2019
Poetry Contest: Bougainvillea
Sponsored by: Craig Cornish
I've ventured far from Indiana, the home soil of my birth,
To many exotic and exciting places all about this earth.
I've seen majestic Mount Fuji from the Kanto Plain of Tokyo.
But I'd rather marvel at Pikes Peak right here in Colorado!
I've traveled the rugged Khyber Pass in ancient Pakistan,
And saw sumo wrestling and cherry blossoms in Japan.
The alabaster city of Casablanca I've visited in Morocco,
But I'd rather tour old ghost towns right here in Colorado!
Magnificent Mount Vesuvius I've seen across Naples Bay.
In Holland I've seen windmills and tulips in vast display.
I've seen the swallows returning to San Juan Capistrano.
'Tis more thrilling to see eagles soar the pristine skies of Colorado!
In Bermuda I've lolled upon the beaches of pink sand,
And have viewed the towering Alps of Switzerland.
Mayan ruins I've scampered over in Old Mexico,
But I'd rather explore the ruins of Mesa Verde in Colorado!
I've climbed the Tower of Pisa rewarded with a view divine,
And visited the quaint Principality of Liechtenstein.
Some folks strive for a lifetime seeking their El Dorado.
I've found mine right here in Colorful Colorado!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
© All Rights Reserved
Placed No. 4 Tracie's " Where in the World..." Contest - Dec 2011
Speaking to the clock
"tick-tock..tick-tock..."
The Cold breeze whispered in her ears:
"Kill and I will clot..
Like a cherry on top,
Thou shall suck the ruptured spleen
Taste of blood, thine eyes shall gleam.."
She grinned in mockery of their fears:
"yes Master! I read your chimes,
In my alleys, wisdom sublimes
Into the smoke, of a stale corpse
My rhymes are written in ruby drops.."
Night has fled beneath her eyes
And there, she stood by her prey:
Thorough, and her hair was dark
Conscience seldom would embark
Her psyche, she had no doubt
Loved the redness on her pout..
The glee that death had given her
Made her fly into the azure,
Choice of knives,
Choice of lives,
Or raw, she liked her meal
Broken bones,
With fleshy robes
Alive! It made her feel:
Fingers dripping blood,
She licked the floor..
For more,
Poor prey! she kept it still
As she devoured to the heart..
The Cold Air embraced her in a passionate kiss..
Esctatic shiver in the icy trance,
She had her dessert:
Eyes that lolled on the couch,
She plucked, as per her divine vouch,
Time had passed, without a glance..
She leaves the night for the damned
Until hungry again.
Mermaid
This afternoon a mermaid swam to the shore and took flight, so you didn’t, know that the beautiful creatures who live in our seas can fly, she lifted her delicate silky wings and flew seeing me staring forlornly by the kitchen window with a dishcloth in my left hand not seeing a fairytale being I used to believe in as a child
She knocked on the window I opened up, but not much because close up she lolled like a Karen of the type saying men are useless but call you to open a tin of sausages or fetch her slippers in the bedroom Suddenly she took fright and flew away but the
knocking persisted it was my neighbor who wanted me to scrub her back, I helped her out of the bathtub, and before stood a scrawny 84-year-old mermaid
Slim was pigeon-toed and bow-legged from allus bein' astraddle,
Of his faithful hoss Old Dan and his well-worn creakin' saddle!
He'd spent 30 years gazin' twixt Old Dan's ears ridin' the spread.
Now both is retired and he took up writin' cowboy poetry instead!
On the porch of the bunkhouse he propped his boots upon the railin',
To muse upon many things he'd write about in this new unveilin'.
He wrote about Cooky's chuck of the usual taters, bacon 'n' beans,
And dressin' up Saturday nights to do-si-do with dance-hall queens!
Brandin' time in the old corral and fixin' fences he put to verse.
Ridin' herd on stormy nights when he thought it couldn't git any worse!
He wrote about cattle drives and the hell cowboys raised in Abilene,
Drinkin', fightin' and gamblin' 'til marshals drove them from the scene!
He expressed his views on wimmen-folk and why he chose to stay free!
He wrote of lakes, streams and valleys and distant mountains' majesty!
Of how fellers lolled about the camp fire enjoyin' a terbaccy chaw,
And how cowpoke Pete could fashion a roll-yer-own with his 3-fingered claw!
He wrote that he warn't a pious man to be corralled by a congregation.
He preferred to git his spiritual grub from the magnificence of God's Creation!
Fer his final verse he wrote, "I reckon cowboyin' was allus in my genes.
When I come to the end of the trail boys, jes' bury me in my jeans!"
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
(c) All Rights Reserved