Long Manned Poems
Long Manned Poems. Below are the most popular long Manned by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Manned poems by poem length and keyword.
Any foodie on the brink
Of getting moody thinks
Of the dear dairy panacea
The culinary kinks
The cultural links
Gourmet high jinx
Of no.. not Cullen skink
CHEESE
As drinks clink then sink
Where the nods & the winks
Go to the food of the Gods
The stuff that really really stinks
CHEESE
A noble global endeavour
Arty farty dolcelatte party
Comte & cheddar
Smutty nutty double header
CHEESE
Palette caged by a rare
Cave aged Gruyere
Who can forget..appetite whet
Heat light stand manned..expands..
Milky glue or is it silky Moo Goo
Fanned..hands pulling strands
Eat not..planned fondue
Best damned bet
Always get a Raclette
CHEESE
Prouder of Gouda
Or louder Parmesan fan
Even when its powder?
Tilting to the built in love
For Stilton.. never wilting
Hard the calling card
Or more a Roquefort sort
Taught soft held aloft
French can’t bench moulds
Aristocratic blue vein
Dramatic wench holds court
Emphatic stench & stain
CHEESE
Whatever floats your boat
Maybe Goat gets your vote
Or those in the know
Gloat..chose sheep & Manchego
CHEESE
Young or well hung
Given time in the cellar
But won’t sneer at Paneer
Mozzarella can be stellar
Even give a damn
About dear Madame Edam
CHEESE
If you're of that whining ilk
Got that dining disease
Opining it’s just mouldy milk
Having a dig..you big tease…
Well won’t try to appease
CHEESE
Wary of the not rated
Scary squirting lube
You squeeze with ease
Flirting fairy out of a tube
Ill fated.. pre grated or
Diced into a nice cube
CHEESE?
Or drastic vices
Plastic elastic slices
Could go for Dairy Lea
Fell under the Babybel spell
Or pray tell maybe
Its Le Vache qui Rit
CHEESE?
Always a winning wheeze
Ideal at the beginning
Or end of a meal
No ratty ways of thinning
Natty diets lose to fatty riots
Choose ways of sinning
A ruse to amuse..
MORE CHEESE PLEASE
He says grinning
P.S If eating cheese before bed
Gives you a crappy nightmare
So what if you have fed
On cheese in these dreams
No scrappy schemes in your head
Led to days with rays of sunbeams
Teams of happy memes instead
Well it seems only fair
'Twas a dark and stormy night on that dark and stormy night!
HMS Blunderbuss plied the billowing seas just off the Isle of Wight!
Able Seaman Steer manned the helm when dead ahead he saw the light!
He woke the snoozing Officer of the Deck to apprise him of their plight!
Captain Ironbottom (who happened to be in the 'head') was duly alerted!
He dashed to the bridge in his drawers to ensure that disaster was averted!
"By jove!" he cried, "Her Majesty's ships turn aside for no one, I say!"
He grabbed the radio, "Ahoy there! Turn east 15 degrees! Out of my way!"
From out of the ozone a voice retorted, "Suggest you turn west 15 degrees!
I'll not change course for anyone, so heed my warning if you please!"
"This is Captain Ironbottom of the HMS Blunderbuss!" he thundered back!
"I know the rules of the road! Turn now or I'll see you hung from the rack!"
Able Seaman Steers' eyes grew as large as saucers knowing not what to do!
Communication between the captain and the mysterious light was turning blue!
As the distance narrowed between them, neither would give a nautical mile!
The white-knuckled Officer of the Deck was turning pale with a sickly smile!
"This is Captain Ironbottom again! Are you challenging Her Majesty's might?"
"Yes sir" was the reply, "You see, this is the light house on the Isle of Wight!"
Today the mighty HMS Blunderbuss rusts upon the Isle of Wight's rocky shoal.
Captain Ironbottom faded into oblivion due to the folly of his last patrol!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
© All Rights Reserved
Grotesque monsters immortalized in stone
Are perched on top of ancient architectural
Churches with a rumor attached about them
Being marsupial, taking to flight, and having
To materialize back in their places before
Sunrise so they don't fossilize.
These horrible creatures protect buildings as
Water spouts to keep the wall clear along
With frightening away evil spirits to which
The Cardinals say are functional.
Can you visualize their disguise?
These monsters and creatures are known as
Gargoyles who are mythical, mystical, magical,
And historical.
These mythological unusual creations aren't
At all conventional yet, they are phenomenal.
Laugh out loud they've left night time for day
Time afternoon with their own cartoon and
Video game chain
Which makes them a conversational
Piece with real names and fame with which
My children they entertain.
This was a massive campaign.
Thanks to Disneyland
Gargoyles are no longer disdained or plain.
Now they have their own merchandise on
Sale, on demand under their own name brand
So before it's all gone check out their stand
It's fully manned. Believe it or not they got
The upper hand.
Seventy Three Years Since 1945
(August 6 and 9 respectively)
Robert Oppenheimer manned
"The Manhattan Project",
a top secret World War II mission
which constituted "Little Boy" codename
for a uranium gun-type atomic
bomb dropped at 0815
exploding 580 metres above civilians
with15 kiloton blast yield reduced
400 year old city to dust
Colonel Paul Tibbets, the pilot/ bombardier
of the Enola Gay (the Boeing B-29 Superfortress
unleashing nuclear warfare
seventy three years ago today)
gives cause for this baby boomer to revisit
mentally, the annihilation,
extermination, incineration
the first of two storied Japanese enclaves
realizes how trifling my current bout
with mania paranoia, pneumonia
(from northern exposure)
contrasted with sinister malevolent
evil tower ushering
thermonuclear age epitomizing
coup de nada so graceful means
maximum military mutilation
though unwell, this inflammation poised
to be cured unlike subsequent
generations of victims
who survived atrocious, egregious, hellacious,
judicious slaughter can only
poorly be described
by this mortal with a curable
bacterial/viral infection
aghast at such wanton killing, moreso
via weapons of mass destruction
more devastatingly grisly than
those "experimental" bombs
loosed upon the innocent population,
whereby 75,000 people killed or fatally injured
with 65% of casualties nine years
of age and younger
whence offspring of survivors
evincing excess genetic anomalies
with fiery windy surface
temperatures topping 4,000C
upon terrain hallowed by ghastly
horrible deathly dominance
amidst shadow of a mushroom cloud.
I apologize at any unintentional
flagitious, egregious,
deleterious et cetera and
atrocious (asper wording),
which accidental faux pas
toward an allpoetry participant
named skypriceireland, who brand
did me with
crookedly unflattering feedback,
and practically demand
did, an explanation,
which hoop fully
clarifies intended feedback,
thus aye expand
utmost sincerity and perceives
how my anger got fanned
when purposeful intent grand
lee and roundly surmising
if the Jesse (un-named child) referenced
in the poem played
an influential invisible hand
as the whims of children
can be so inventive
absent any parental oversight
to inveigle being baited
from kiddie make believe island
a desired outcome, rather
exclaim with com manned
double delight at such un-planned
Hi Yo Silver braying ejaculation,
thus upon this
expostulation I stand.
Oh, the incessant noise, the jibber jabber,
civilization’s cure for loneliness,
the panacea for boredom.
If only, if only, “You’ve got male.”
would be an answer.
Ah, but no…
Tweet on, “Oh ship of state…”
this Union, this rudderless human joining…
Oh, to be a deer in the wood
the silent wood, the sea of green, the eye of calm
to hear naught but the patter of rain.
And, taste only the dewy mist
on the tip of pedal pink tongue.
To not have soiled the soul, flesh eater, destroyer
To be Un-manned…
To run and leap, doe-eyed, over fallen log…instead of fallen foe.
To rise a-dawning in the mist of a four-legged dream.
To be mounted by a loyal buck
and birth a quivering fawn.
Surely, all the monkey mind has to offer
can not compare to the innocence of the doe.
Shut the roaring static, kill the jabber walkie
resurrect me silent, furred and free
amongst the fiddleheads and moss
of the wildwood.
Manned missiles in a queue,?Each big as a prehistoric creature,?Lined up for a lowkey suicidal mission.
I fly so many times-?I don’t know which one will be the last.?Should I finally buy into the reassuring safety claims-?Marketing ploys boasting longevity of service??Nineteen years of going places,?Says a cheapy flight.?No class system could save Titanic;?Would I be so lucky to stump fate?
The airline food-?Promises, with no exaggeration,?It will be there for us-?Throughout the ups and downs of life and beyond.
But turbulence comes unannounced,?Like a bumpy bus ride.?A thousand other rough patches later,?Still stirs up anxiety and TV dinners within.
I think I got away this time.?The tyres light celebratory sparks?upon meeting the ground.?And we, realists who don’t experience happiness-?Ever even once,?Overanalyse ourselves into painful exhaustion.
(Apologies to Rudyard Kipling)
If you can cope with no view of the trees but only sky
if you can navigate some toenail clippings floating by
if you can use duct tape to stop a wound from bleeding faster
because you're 90 million miles from the chemist for some plasters
if a flatulant spaceman's gasses reach your lungs and start to fill you
and you can't open a window for that very act would kill you
if you like the taste of potato processed like papier mache
and don't mind drinking real ale with a straw from out a sachet
if you know that the Rams are playing Man United with a full gate
but can't get the result for thirteen hours to celebrate
if when systems start to fail and all hope is gone
and you should have stayed inside the bar of the White Swan
if boldly going somewhere is your real idea of fun
then you deserve all credit, and you'll be a man, my son.
LLAP
I envy the dust, the way it moves all free and careless,
released from it’s sleeping state the thunderous pounds
of late shelling, again endless.
Muffled shouting, through this trench confounding,
Mustard attack, gas mask aside, fingers in fumbling fight
bitter cold night in a field.
No fireside, food to bite
cigarettes to smoke and mates to joke.
last one gone two days ago up one minute then vanished in a puff of smoke.
this place is beyond reality, it’s beyond insanity
fighting for earth no mother walked nor father built.
If they want to fight then bring it to my hills, not this flat wasteland of mud, blood, bones and chills.
We were thrown into this bloody war,
and we wont have our say, like we've never had before.
Taken to the slaughter history will say,
throwing ourselves forward like tidal-waves.
Waves on waves of sacrificial lunacy again and again.
we've taken little ground and this other trench looks bad, worse than ours
doesn't looked heavily manned looks like we lost more man.
What do we gain now? apart from more time in thought.
those withered layers of rotting feverish flesh, one part is fresh
the other pure dread.
captain is shouting, up on my legs
what’s going on...conscious or dead?
From Italy’s Punta Carena Lighthouse painted pompeian red,
we watch the sun sink into The Tyrrhenian Sea with some dread.
A magnificent beast, stone steps carved from lava taken from Mt. Vesuvius,
the feeling she gives this visitor is astro-new-vious.
An implied reverence, an unknown feeling, leaves me bit shaken.
Every day, eighty-eight lighthouse keepers on these steps has taken,
a walk to the top, to give the sea a good luck, to save lives, a life that is hard.
To watch bottle nose dolphins and sperm whales, and alert the coast guard
The azure sky smiles at Punta Carena, loving the knowledge their friend Carlo is there.
He has mastered the lighthouse keeper’s job, and swings the beacons without a care.
He has faithfully walked these steps, every day, even after knee replacement surgery.
In his spare time he uses water colours to paint the beautiful seascapes, and writes poetry.
I believe earthquakes are hitting during our visit, but he smiles at my unfounded fears.
Just tremors he tells me, can you smell the sea? And I can; I can feel it's soul, over the years.
Carol D’Oriono, whose home has been this lighthouse for thirteen years will be gone in three weeks.
Replaced by an electronic board, which will not know how to look for what a human seeks.
As I took in this gorgeous view, unique in every single way, words flooded my soul, don't you know?
I really wanted to beg the Italian's last lighthouse keeper to not leave this place, to never ever go.
Written: 12-16-2018
Contest: Lighthouse Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Eve Roper