Long Nose Poems
Long Nose Poems. Below are the most popular long Nose by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Nose poems by poem length and keyword.
Raindrops, noisy little buggers
....ricochet off the windows
Raindrops, itinerant drummers
.....searching for a beat
Raindrops gather, meander mob-like
......through the streets
Puddles of predictability
raindrops repeat
.......tapping points
Artistic raindrops
.....diamond studded
.....spider webs
Freezing raindrops glaze
...........frosting snow
Raining cats and dogs
........cold nose wet fur
John G. Lawless
2/16/2021
Crunch
by Michael R. Burch
A cockroach could live nine months on the dried mucous you scrounge from your nose
then fling like seedplants to the slowly greening floor ...
You claim to be the advanced life form, but, mon frere,
sometimes as you snatch encrusted kinks of hair from your Leviathan ass
and muse softly on zits, icebergs snap off the Antarctic.
You’re an evolutionary quandary, in need of a sacral ganglion
to control your enlarged, contradictory hindquarters:
surely the brain should migrate closer to its primary source of information,
in order to ensure the survival of the species.
Cockroaches thrive on eyeboogers and feces;
their exoskeletons expand and gleam like burnished armor in the presence of uranium.
But your cranium
is not nearly so adaptable.
“Crunch” is a poem about evolution and survival of the fittest which questions where human beings really are the planet earth’s most advanced life forms. Keywords/Tags: evolution, global warming, climate change, pollution, insect, insects, cockroach, cockroaches, advance life form, survival of the fittest, adaptability, animal, animals, environment, world, America
Billie died today.
Respiratory failure,
quiet and painless.
She just went away.
I sat beside her bed,
watching her breath,
the blue pulse in her neck.
She lay on her right side,
pale, fetal-curled,
facing the wall,
worn out, used up.
Hospice told me
that the only thing
keeping her alive
was the oxygen being given
though the clear plastic mask
covering her nose and mouth.
There were drops of condensation
inside the mask,
making most of her small face indistinct.
The parts I could see clearly –
forehead,
cheek and chin,
one ear,
were perfectly calm.
I was told that I could
remove the mask.
I did.
She took a single breath,
later, another;
she was gone.
She would have done the same for me.
© Jack Jordan 2013
I walked through the garden where the jasmine lies
I found the brightest star in your breathtaking eyes
When your eyes nearly uttered in my widest hour
I felt the paradise among the wild flower
Bewildered and stuck in labyrinth of your heart
I shall linger till the heaven falls apart
Abiding round your love is neither my victory
Nor I could narrate it as my story
Your presence nurtured me, and liss my soft desire
I've sailed through your cerise nose to your cheeks like briar
I watch the bare sky painting your tempting smile
Cacophony litherly upmake a melody and makes me more fragile
Your rhyme reads like a rap they say,
a rap I say,
a rap they say,
perhaps but rap is rhyme you see,
it's rhyme really,
it's rhyme you see,
this poem is not lyrical,
no not at all,
not lyrical,
'cus songs use words repeatedly,
repeat you see,
repeatedly.
We'll use that as the chorus,
it's easy and thoughtless,
lets build a rhyme fortress
with verse summersaultus,
not a word but I don't care,
eating apples grapes and pears,
seeking angles of praise from flair,
story starts now take a chair.
Out in public with clothes removed,
I've had this dream but now it's true,
a dude that's nude and on the move,
without a pube all in plain view,
swing it like a helicopter,
round and round 'til someone stops ya,
grab some weed and party poppers,
run down streets to dart from coppers,
drinking aftershock that shocks ya,
always after the shot has docked ya,
stick your head between some knockers,
wake up thick lipped at the doctors.
(Chorus)
Write it like a conversation,
it might give it a new dimension,
in that last verse you forced the rhyme,
of course that's fine in this rap rhyme,
'cus rap is rhyme it's rhyme they rap,
that is a fact a fact is that,
by it's nature rap is rhyme,
if it reads like a rap then it reads like a rhyme,
does that mean always rhyme is rap,
of course it isn't it's less than that,
now that sounds mean,
what do you mean,
rap rhymes are rhymes and rap,
rhymes just rhyme they're not rap,
well what's this verse then is it rap?
No my friend this verse is crap,
I hope they remember this is a conversation,
they're not reading you lost their attention.
(Chorus)
A third verse now this is long winded,
it's forced and pointless poets cringing,
get back to the story,
now you were knocked out,
yes and I remember nowt,
then what the hell's this rhyme about,
it's like a selfie with lips that pout,
no one cares except the poser,
that means no one notes the nose hair,
wrap this up it's going nowhere,
rap it up like you're a rapper,
this poem keeps on getting crapper,
no one's read as far as here,
in this worse rhyme you've wrote all year,
at least it flows like hip hop songs,
it flows with flow its flow is strong,
to flow like this use words not long,
here's the chorus lets sing along.
(Chorus)
it reads like a hip hop
POTD 17/10/2018
Making Breakfast
by Edmund Siejka
We live
Where trees
Reach out
To shade
A quite place.
Saturday morning
Chores
Kids still asleep
She moves effortlessly
Cracking an egg
Then another
Adding seasoning
Stirring
A blur of movements
A flick of the wrist
And breakfast is ready.
She is the Mistress
Of the house
The kitchen
Is where
We have dinner
A chance for us to
Share and
Talk
Listen to our kids
Ask questions
And grow.
“Where is the salt?” I ask
Morning sun
Gleaming
On my wife’s
Soft brown hair
Just brushed back
Warm sleep
Clinging to
Every corner of her dress.
The woman
Who says she loves me
Puts up with me
Stands
Arms folded
Leaning against the counter
She is the only one
Who can say
“It’s right in front of your nose
Where it always is”
I look sheepishly
The ceramics twins
Smile back at me
In shiny silence
Knowing that without her
I wouldn’t have breakfast.
Broken bottles glitter on the swollen concrete before
the door.
His smiling face in fractals of the glass window.
His counter, sun-wrecked and water stained hold his
familiar hands.
The floor is caked in ochre footsteps of those who
came out of the rain before me.
Vaulted ceilings of ashen metal blow artificial air
upon my midsummer neck
The gray veins of each aisle beckon me home
Smells of fresh baked bread permeate the thick, wet
air and come to rest, steadfast, in my nose
Mohammed’s communal voice starts to sing
and static begins to crackle
The store itself drenched in scents of brief understanding
Spring’s last whiff
wafted delightfully
through my parents
bedroom window
where I swung myself
at that time
after a distressing storm
scenting of newness
light as angel hair
stroking my nose
arousing a sublime
serendipity
Maybe that’s when
poetry flowed
from the brood
or possibly
the years of injury
from a cracked
first wedding
or missing my dad
early on
just as I lacked him most
who grasps
Though I believe
poetry came from
a beauteous strange
amalgamation
of life’s vicissitudes
churning emotions &
propelling them into words
alike now
as I gaze out
over snow-covered fields
gently rolling under
powder blue sky
while a couple of sparrows
chirp happily
assuring all
spring is nearly absconding from
the meadow
1St Place Contest Winner
Written: June 18, 2022
A BRIAN STRAND PREMIERE CHOICE Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Brian Strand
The Virus
by Bob Moore © 2020
The Corona virus hit us, we didn’t know what to do
it was just a real bad cold, a cousin of the flu
it made you cough, and feel quite sick, and your nose would run a bit
but I didn’t hear, around the world, that corona made you sh*t
Why then did the world go mad, and all the shelves they’d strip
of toilet rolls and tissues, and battled to get a grip
of what the virus did to you, and which end it would affect
a lot of rolls will be sitting there, for a long time I expect.
So let us stop this silliness, and give normal folk a go
just to buy a roll or two, and maybe we will show,
we can think and act like neighbours, and help each other out
and when this virus runs its course, all will be normal again no doubt.
Designing The Perfect Woman
First order of business is
She should be alive
Let’s start at the head
It should be connected to a body
One or two eyes affixed in the upper front
Facing forward…and yes…There should be a face
A mouth should be considered
One that speaks or not
A nose is important (Women like the smell of flowers)
The body could be of any shape or size
Skin is important to hold things together inside
Texture and color are on the drawing board
Hair or no hair is optional
The same with the brain but it should be functional
What is a perfect design for me may not be the same for you
There are all kinds of women
I’m not building a building or making a car
After created to specifications
Give them a little money
Things will work out fine
Placing a soul in her is above my pay grade
Females should have at least one heart inside
All women are perfect some times
It must be by design