Long Looney Poems
Long Looney Poems. Below are the most popular long Looney by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Looney poems by poem length and keyword.
enthusiasm grabs me by the right foot
shakes me here
tosses me there
I land over the fence
I am laughing
because I landed on wet pumpkins
enthusiasm is giggling
she adores shaking me out of my age self
I feel five-years-young and it is fabulous!
she tosses me up into the top of the sycamore
Now what? I ask.
We are both laughing like Missouri mules.
that loud, ugly, hee-haw laughing between friends.
Jump down! She encourages me.
We are howling now.
the neighbors run over to see what is happening.
They act like I am looney tunes.
I am.
Thanks to enthusiasm!
and I love it.
There's no busier time of the year than now
A time to enjoy the company of family and friends
To renew old acquaintances and establish new ones
A time of love when we forget all the negatives
And enjoy all the positives that life has to offer
If it wasn't for this holiday season
We'd most likely all being living in the looney bin
Being spoon fed some mushy stuff
And carrying on conversations with imaginary friends
For us poets, carrying on conversations
With imaginary friends is quite normal
But for the average Jack or Jill on the street
It's a new and scary experience
The saving grace is that it's only a temporary thing
And eventually reality sets in
But until then, live it up and enjoy
This busiest, most heart warming time of the year
© Jack Ellison 2014
T hey’d aughta not called nookie
H eaven’s blessed cookie...
E ither burd or bee, cause neither's a lookie!
B urds well der feathered, not like me?
I n da interest of clarity, I’m certainly NO bee?
R obins do have red breasts and I have two, see?
D ern, maybe dat's why dey calls dem da burds and da bees?
S o, if da ladies da burd, da guy must be da bee?
A nyway, why didn’t dey call IT da cows and da doves?
N ow, cows at least got legs and doves are for luv!
D rat, I still don’t get da bee stingy thingie, "Gov?"
T he bees has a sting YIKE and bees sure love honey.
H ell, maybe they thought a man'd sting ya for money?
E ither dat or “Hmmm,” some ladies are real punny?
B et we women smell real sweet, I guess, and da bees fly to honey?
E eeeeeekkk, I so confuddled, I feel like Mikey Rooney?
E ach dern metaphors is making me more looney tooney!
S imply forget da dern foolishness and give me a groomie!
There is an old lady with over a thousand cats.
They are so cute they take your heart, forever playing about the house
with a stuff mouse.
She is known as the Crazy Cat Woman.
In love with cats their close to her bosom, treats them like they were human.
Everyone thinks she is Looney as a bat,
but around her house, there isn’t a rat.
All so spoiled and fat, they all have their own mats.
She's given the cats the run of her home.
They are never allowed out at night to roam.
However, you can bet that they all dream of mice and rats.
Her home doesn’t smell like a rose,
to get close to it you have to hold your nose.
When time to feed them, they all go into a feeding frenzy.
With a loving smile and her gentle touch they all fight for her attention.
All starving for affection, she brings such satisfaction, I have to mention.
They're so many and counting, all under foot she is in a world of ecstasy.
1/10/2018
Poetry Contest: CRAZY CAT LADY: RHYME
Sponsored by: Line Gauthier
The silence is deafening
But I’m sane I assure
Meet my friend Oliver
You can’t see him, he is right there
My name is Theodore
I took San Juan Hill
What the hell do you mean
I don’t need a pill
Abe Lincoln was
A good friend of mine
And I used to have tea
With the Queen all the time
This is a nice jacket
But no sleeves that’s not right
And you Idiots have it
Put on to damn tight
My room has no furniture
But it has rubber walls
I have too lie on the floor
And no one hears when I call
But I do have Oliver
A good friend he has been
And today we have a treat
We’re having tea with the Queen.
Now I’ve made sense and untied the knots
the mist lifts I visualise what I could not
events long gone and by now by all forgot
scenes of confusion which seemed lost from plot
But now I understand and move forth accordingly
I don’t give a damn who hears my recordings see
I’d rather make a new plan than put old into order
For you to stand wasting time that I can’t afford to
Lose, when they get confused by my story it’s amusing
failure to make sense of scenes and who I am accusing
Back then just the same they said I fake that I’m moody
They Bond for reassurance have a laugh and call me Looney
Now I’ve learnt who my friends are and who turned from me
I’ve realised the way things went and who was burning me
and though this is a late response it all holds relevance
because however long ago it was evidence is evidence
Friends ain’t friends if they say you fake your problems
I see it all now and am offended cuz it’s not on
to claim I make it up when the period was so long
the group not hearing then now can’t see the bonds gone
The fact of the matter is you did what I wouldn’t do to you
you still don’t know stood looking confused
so now I have to come back and explain it to all of you
what’s the point mate, cheerio to all of you
THE SUN WILL SHINE AGAIN
When fear comes visiting
Like a secret lover from the shadows,
My heart welcomes her looney tunes
To my desolate cathedral -
Familiar stranger,
In motley congregation.
My dreams scream like dirty wounds
On arduous thorny grounds;
Fright takes hold in feeble space,
Fear smiles in gruesome glee,
Echoes of doubt stifle
My wailing heart in grisly dread.
I turn to _Elédùmarè_ for guidance,
He sends _Ifá_ for comfort -
Whose corpus coaxes
in subtle motifs.
I hear the cock crow...
_Ku`ku`ru´u`ku!_
It's a new dawn.
(One of my #TAP4 entries)
Published in "Echoes from the Savannah" © Makinde Adebayo Adeniyi,2024
The girl and her smile straddle the rainbow.
Neon hair the fluid cascades of northern lights,
her seafoam cloak the ripples outgrown by the shore.
She adores the breeze adorned with gems.
Emeralds fly from silk strings in wriggle-giggle wind,
as jaded kites made of ruby and sapphire and pearl
sit on a picnic checkerboard in envy-green grass
betting on play-dates with zephyrs.
White dice cubes roll beady-black-eyes at their folly.
She chases books as they sail from trees.
Their soft-covers as nimble as sparrows’ flit.
She leafs through slices of fruitcake,
each nutty page a looney tooney frame of insane;
Mr. H. Dumpty carouses with Mick Jagger swagger,
two baby paisley owls drive a ‘67 mustang car,
the car does a hop-scotch down bourbon street.
Field-mouse-flowers meow,
the moon jumps over the cow,
and she sings “the world needs more bumblebees!”
The golden palm of a five-fingered maple leaf
offers a diamond ring.
Palm trees pull up anchor and hover
in sunset silhouette like Mai Tai parasols.
A two-masted schooner scries seawater for its soul.
She laughs as black-habited nuns ride
upside-down on the roller-coaster rim
their feet kicking the billow-bellies of clouds ‘til
they fall into dreamcatchers sticky
and tricky as spiderwebs,
and a doughy-boy-baker loses
the reins of sugar-cookie-horses tilling
confetti seeds in a magician's puppet garden
where Dali wombs and peacock plumes bloom.
Selfies
Loony's got a blister on her chin.
Poor Looney! May the world weep with her.
She's torn by trouble; she just can't win;
God Bless her soul.
Loony's got a blister on her chin,
Where the dimple used to be.
But Loony's still got her share of men;
She's pretty as a peach.
She's tall and fair haired like an Englishman.
Folks like her, they say she's a real card.
But Loony's got a blister on her chin,
And her complexion's marred.
God help Loony, for she's the one in need,
No longer perfect like she could have been.
Poor Looney is not so fair of late.
Because she's got a blister on her chin.
Is dance a metaphor for sex?
You’d think so if you knew my ex
(at least the barflies all believe
she’s hoarding something up her sleeve).
But what makes people want to dance?
An aural frenzy? True romance?
Would Hamlet, Shylock or Macbeth
ever dance themselves to death?
Strasbourg is the kind of town
that’s unassuming, buttoned down.
These people don’t let down their hair:
rarely reckless, somewhat square.
The year before a reign began
(that’s Charles the Fifth – the Habsburg man):
to celebrate Saint Vitus’ Day
a Strasbourg woman’s new ballet
was launched in Rue des Hallebardes
(a strange event in all regards).
Right outside her Strasbourg home,
a stone’s throw from Strassburgerdom,
one Frau Follea hit the street
(and man, that chick could move her feet!)
We don’t know what her motive was:
perhaps she did it ‘just because’.
Did she deserve the looney bin?
No - other folks were joining in!
With twisting torsos, poor and posh,
the city streets were soon awash.
Without the need for record player,
the followers of Frau Follea
bopped and boogied through the night,
as hot as Rhineland anthracite.
Did scruples sting at morning mist?
Did conscience prick them to desist?
Did people halt their hellish dance?
Not one mosher! Not a chance!
On they conga’d, rocked and rolled,
oblivious to heat or cold.
More Alsace dusks, forever amber,
reverberated to their samba.
The local grapes are full and juicy:
the people step a mean watusi.
There’s such a thing as civic pride,
but this lot cha-cha’d till they died!
Housewife, beggar, baker, barber
were parties to the danse macabre.
Was their motive pleasure? Fear?
Penance? Sydenham’s Chorea?
The reason for the quick-quick-slow
I don’t suppose we’ll ever know.