Long Nozzle Poems
Long Nozzle Poems. Below are the most popular long Nozzle by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Nozzle poems by poem length and keyword.
A loaded pistol,
With youthful courage till yesteryear;
Now lies naked and dormant,
And Is found to be lifeless and dead.
Somewhere, buried in my Junkyard,
Playfully tested till now in all arms to shame;
As it shyly, blushes and whispers to admit,
Murmuring its helplessness into my ears.
Ooh! My Childhood friend,
It feels like an impotent;
To be so bullet-less today.
My Golden days have all ended,
Life has become so ignorant now;
As I've become so bullet-less today.
As the pendulum constantly oscillates,
Time has traded fast on twenty wheels;
Looking for some good fortune in distant lands.
And a store-room in my backyard,
Has always remained the same;
And is still kept unchanged.
But never was any eye caught,
Not even mine;
To drool upon the nozzle of that Gun;
Like the way I used to do,
Used to lovingly do before.
Strolling down my kindergarten alley,
When a Gun was gifted on a bright Christmas morning;
It used to amaze me in my childhood days,
As I so excitedly unwrapped and got it out;
From the mysterious and magical White socks,
Which was hung on my bed; Hung all night,
Waiting for a snowy white beard old man;
A laughing sage in an exception;
Who lived on the mystical hill-side view,
Of my Steel city.
Today, after so many years,
A long craved sight fell upon it;
And it instantly drove me back,
To flash my childhood nostalgic days.
When infant Army camps used to settle,
To battle in the air for all day long;
Under the densely old,
Never claimed tree by anybody - 'Our Mango Tree'.
Ooh! How then this pistol fakingly killed,
So many nappie buddies of mine.
Who played and just acted,
To be dead as my enemies.
Ooh..! How strangely it feels like,
A game of now.
When today the lil' me gazing at any topic,
Sitting in my backyard;
Stumbled and pondered to find,
An old vintage Shot-gun of mine.
So curiously digging the wearily torn school bag,
Hanging since ages on the dampened wall.
Ooh..! So clueless, I fumbled upon,
An old vintage Shotgun of mine.
Dumped and buried under thousand other,
Essential antique toys of mine;
Which notoriously has got rotten in rust.
In closed walls of adolescence,
Where white parchments seeps overall;
From moist doors of yesterday,
Ooh..! How strangely it still feels like today.
They are forming clusters in the sky, and you cannot see them with your naked eyes you have to consult the giant telescope and go deep sea fishing in a construction boat, and when the wind hits your back you must zoom in everything from the top and the clusters will stare back at you.
Have I ever missed your point, I can see through every joint, the nozzle and the funnel are blocked up with grease and you need a fan to release the heat.
The fanbelt is worn out and the fan is clogged up with dirt, examine the battery terminal carefully and you will see what is going on at the top.
There is a big crack between the gaps, and lugs are bent at the end, the battery cannot hold the charge and that is why the engine takes long to turn and it always shutting down. The battery is very old, and you must take it to the junkyard and replace it with a new one.
I stand in the yard and watch him sweat over the old car, the car is shutting down and it’s the only vehicle he has to take him around the town. He takes it to the shop, but they took all the money he has got and the next day it leaves him stranded on the road.
He try to fix it himself but it absorbs all his energy, and it makes you really feel sorry. Yesterday he rolled down the street and in seconds the tire burst causing a huge explosion in the center of the town. The people start running and the dogs start barking and a big commotion breaks out in middle ground.
He put on a spare tire and hurry to take his wife to the doctor but halfway through the journey the gasket burst spilling grease all over the place, but help was near, and the roadside job was cleared.
Have I ever missed your point? Every meeting you go I have always stood up for you when the bullies come charging at you. I form a wedge between the wall and you and prevent them from hurting you. I have sealed up all the holes and patch up the place and completed the document before the expiration date.
There is cluster around you, and the gigantic whale is waiting for you. I have invested more than a billion dollars in them, and they will parachute towards the heaven. They are on the ground and in the air and they are coming over there. The clusters are everywhere, and you must prepare.
7/21/22
Can't always be a fair bout
Got to air it out
Very little I've cared about
There's no need for prayers or doubts
You say I am, yet to me you sound delirious
I can't take you serious
One of many things that makes me furious
There's no better time to be imperious
Still remaining curious
About the mysterious
Finding the answer through luck or hard work and experience
There's no need to grovel
Occasionally god-awful
My impact minor or colossal
Learned it first-hand or through a novel
Breakfast of coffee and a Belgian waffle
The job done with a hose and nozzle
Still looking for love, while digging for fossils
People often acting hostile
Having tunnel vision like seeing through goggles
No time for drama, only money, got to hit the throttle
The last thing I need to do is sip out bottles
Fought for there to be new growth
Often I cut it too close
Even though you'd hope
That I would croak
We could both
End it on a good note
Among so many good folks
So many enlightening books wrote
Yet too often they say it 'looks gross'
Judging by the cover
Breaking down each other
Including our own brothers
The cycle continues on with no buffer
Think of your mother
Why cause one another
Or yourself to suffer
Did my best to keep my slate clean
Learned a ton since I was eighteen
No need to sit and daydream
Very far from make-believe
it if they tease
Lady we make a great team
So it may seem
Hey Queen
Would you like to go out for coffee or a BBQ with baked beans?
If not, how about relaxing and enjoying a faint breeze
In order to get it, it'll take cheese
Continuing to gain speed
I'd pick you daisies
Dig deep getting scraped knees
In order for us to both break free
You'll always be more than a main squeeze
I'd sacrifice myself so that we all can attain peace
This is way beyond a campaign speech
We grew up different even if we were on the same street
It occurred quickly or for more than eight weeks
Quit trying to always make a scene
If you just want to hate and cheat
Then please take a seat
Serve you justice for being a snake and creep
This all having nothing to do with a datasheet
Hyperthermia can be caused by standing in slip streams in sluice dumps. It never really fails if ice water can run a lake from a rusted tap. And the mid morning broken by the drip drip drip from a nozzle. Squirt then. Nozzles are not noses and noses are not neon. But bringing a interdimensional b track record is now considered to be as slack as wearing dungarees in a cottage garden or a farm. Wow such rich aroma and oversized overspill of oversight. From a wide lusty frame. Whose discussions with a female mongoose will go unnoticed once the turmoil begins. Cover oneself with fifty six sheets, a record collection, five billion cassettes and consider life as a plant. Conversation cleverly choosing charismatic charming chequered chins chasing chests. And a dodo on a mountaineering expedition with two hundred tyrannosaurus rex, eighty-three teradactals and a half pint of lemonade in a nice clean jug. To wash with not drink. What on earth did you think. The amazement of some is often to the admonishment of another and the cruel multiplatonic indifference is what the name of the takeaway should be called. To be ingested in front of the ray machine. Hypnotic baby soothers. In mass. In amps. En masse. But not en suite. For that is merely utilised for the jam production in many hue and flavour. How very clever thought the passing bluebird. Halfway to town and twenty seeds left. Then right. Fortification of flames on a canal trip taking turns steering. Good. And fashion no necklace into a giant statue of an old hero. Hearing a moon beam then? Good. For at that elevation you should hear even the most daintiest cry from a single blade of field. Dare to dance with that then? Yes? Great. Fantastically freeformed frame fishes. And the hallways smile in castles worldwide. Grab then a hat,a coat, some gloves and build a symmetrical snowman with a crane. Hahahaha beetle borrowing books hahahaha laughing leering lecherous lurking leeches. Xxxxx hyperbolic z this is the midday bulletin from the p y q reporting live from the headquarters at 89.0 whisking. X
Form:
I’m Onomato-pea-a
The window is my home.
I love the sounds of cooking
At day, at dusk, and dawn.
Mom clomps into the room
And clicks on every light
The curtain whooshes open,
I wake up, “No more night!”
Drawers squeak, cabinets creak
Bread plonks down on the counter
Bacon’s opened, flour’s measured
Pans clang on rusty burners
I hear the toaster popping
The bacon sizzling in the skillet
Eggs cracking, the spatula clacking
While the gurgling coffee pot drips
Grapes are rinsed, herbs are minced,
Mushrooms crackle and splatter
The butter fizzles, the batter sizzles
As pancakes bubble and spatter
The kettle shrieks and whistles
The blender whirrs and hums
Forks jingle, spoons jangle
Mugs are placed with a thud
The microwave vrooms as the oatmeal spins
The mixer churns the dough
Knives chop, apples topple,
The oven dings—ready to go!
Glasses chink, dishes plink,
Plates and bowls karrunnn!
Slippers shuffle across the floor
Grumpy faces grunt and yawn
Water whispers from the faucet
Syrup drizzles from the nozzle
Orange juice glugs into a glass
Milk splashes from the bottle
Muffin liners crinkle off
Bacon’s piled on plates
Fruit is munched, toast is crunched,
Oatmeal’s slurped and scraped
Juice is gulped, tea is sipped,
Coffee’s filled then spilled!
I hear a moan, then, “Don’t groan….
Just clean it up!” the mug’s refilled.
Cream cheese spreads on toasted bagels,
Eggs are salted with the shaker
Coffee’s stirred, seconds are served
“Mmmmms” and “Yums” are uttered
Serving dishes bounce and rattle,
Cups and plates clink on the tray
Dishes crash into the sink
With a bonk! Clunk! And Clank!
Rags swirl around the counter
Trash is lugged through the door
The broom swishes on the ground
The mop glides across the floor
The Dishwasher rumbles and purrs
the refrigerator drones and sighs
the clock ticks, the faucet drips
I stretch, yawn and shut my eyes.
(Out of Eden: Act V)
Have you heard the sound of hooves go….. ‘clippety clippety, clop’?
That is the sound that the Pale Horse makes, when down on Earth to shop.
That Reaper mean, the one called ‘Grim’,
Takes tortured souls with wanton whim.
That rider of the Pale Horse smirks - goes …clippety, clippety, clop. ...clippety, clippety, clop.
Have you heard the sound of chests go…… ‘boom-a de boom-a de boom’?
That is the sound that the poor heart makes in throes of gloom and doom.
Horrors unleashed you freeze with fright,
Hormone screaming ‘flee or fight!!!’
The stricken heart pounds deathly beats - goes '...boom-a de boom-a de boom’….boom-a de boom-a de boom’!
Have you heard the sound of guns go ….rat-a-tat, rat-a-tat, tat?
That is the sound that the nozzle made when out, it’s bullets, spat.
To claim a life and rip apart
The victim …and a loved one’s heart.
That nozzle spits out rhythmic hate - goes…rat-a-tat, rat-a-tat, tat! …rat-a-tat, rat-a-tat, tat!
Have you heard the sound of bells go ..ring-a-ling, ding-a-ling, dong?
That is the sound that the Church bells make to mark a victory song.
Men may die, and many shall mourn
But Life itself is not forlorn.
Be brave, take heart…the Church bell peals, ..goes: ring-a-ling, ding-a-ling, dong …ring-a-ling, ding-a-ling, dong!
Have you heard the sound of the Cock; go …kook-a-doodle, kook-a-doodle, doo?
That is the sound that the rooster makes when light, the days, renew.
Days will come, and days will go
And Life goes on the way we know.
So listen, hark! The cockerel crows - ….it goes: …kook-a-doodle, kook-a-doodle, doo ...Kook-a-doodle, kook-a-doodle, doo…………Kook-a-doodle, kook-a-doodle, doo - Another Dawn ...another Day ….kook-a-doodle, kook-a-doodle, doo!
Mother! you weep for your son, and another son
and yet another son! Fodder to the misshapen morals of this world! Shot in cold blood! Again and again! Each bullet screaming out the rage of hatred!
What God would train a piece of metal that way? Hear those voices singing hymns of some unseen spiritual head! The rattle of words that become rattle of guns! this battle ground was once the land of the cultured, the civilised! Cradles harboured love, schools values, and life was a journey of joy!
Oh! mother who has made your womb a production line of such despondency?
Every child born is a victim of savagery! Savage who pulls the trigger or the victim at the end of the nozzle are both from a mother’s womb!
Mother! Who do you pray to for justice? Your religion has been marketed and sold too! Tall architectures that speak of God, let loose on us the designs of the devil!
Where do we run and hide mother?
If only you all had the powers to refuse to lend your flesh and blood to be made victims of this insane land!
Oh, Mother! Let us all start afresh! Let us create a world, where every child born can be shown love and be taught that this human land was designed for peace and happiness!
Oh, Mothers of this world, it is time to stop your flood of tears! Only mothers know the heartbreak of a lost child!
Every tomb harbours tears that was once a reason of joy when in the womb!
The world watches silently as the injustices continue unabated! Yet we have faith in the power of mothers! In your purity of love that only your heart can generate, that may one day make us all realise that we are all children of the same mother. Mother, you are nature, and Nature is Mother!
*ODE TO MY GARDENING GLOVES
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Alas, beautiful gardening gloves, I knew you well. I remember that early March morn; I opened your package and slipped you onto my hands. At first you were a bit stiff and uncomfortable. Over time you softened and became my weekly companion, pulling weeds, cutting flowers, and guiding the nozzle on the water hose allowing our foliage to flourish even during the hot summer months.
You've faded, though, from our days together in the sun. Your bubble grippers are worn, and your fingers are tattered and torn, worse for the wear. I will surely miss you as I will miss the warm, languid summer days we shared together.
Soon, I'll cover my hands with woolen mittens or furry gloves. But you'll hold a special place in my heart as I stand on my front porch shivering and yearning for next spring's arrival. Inside my desk drawer I've placed my new pair of gardening gloves, already purchased for next spring.
Each morning during the seemingly endless dreary winter months, I’ll open my desk drawer and slip them onto my hands, embracing the hope they symbolize.
oh! frost in the air
mist is on the nearby hills
plant dead, ugly bulbs
once bulbs are planted
they slumber peacefully while
faithfully waiting
in silent darkness
locked in winter's frozen sleep
secretly they grow
bulbs work mystery
some morning soon in springtime
pale, green tips appear
soon scarlet blossoms
slowly emerge, gracefully
beauty to behold
Hosed Again!
By Tom
8/1/2006
The water flows quickly through my 5/8’s hose
Seeking passage as raindrops or even fine spray.
Till it gets to the nozzle which I quickly close
For I control the output, same as every other day.
Having now made room for maybe just a drip
(And I promise that tomorrow I’ll change my hose.)
Past a slightly worn gasket that’s lost it’s grip
But promises are like piecrust, so the saying goes.
Perhaps tomorrow I’ll select a hose that will ooze
My power of reasoning is preoccupied I’ve found.
But being the boss it’ll be something that I choose,
Water’s purpose is not just to wet things aground.
It would like nothing better than make me its slave
That in brushing my teeth just to let the thing run,
And use a few more gallons each time that I shave,
That showering twice a day is refreshing and fun.
Then when I’m hot and thirsty and need a quick drink
Its dream is unification with a stream or some river.
While pressing me daily, eight glasses you think?
It sees itself in some lake evaporating back to its giver.
I guess in this matter I should turn it my cheek
For I do have all this water doing its best to get out;
But I refuse to let it run though I might let it leak
While my stubbornness prevails Plants do without,
So I try to conserve and with myself have a truce
And while it’s the staff of life I will cut it no slack.
For the first of each month comes a bill for its use
It’s because of its cost I let things die from its lack.
I’ve learnt to judge you at crucial time,
Not to conclusions jumping: a regrettable crime,
Marriage a woman often eyes in her prime,
Your chosen days, a sour lime,
In my room locked, caring not a dime …
Your hovering winds minding,
When their pressures are grinding,
Your heat we don’t support finding,
Your droplets on even paths winding.
Befriended I have weather installations,
In reasonable disregard for my misguided eyes,
And unhelpful nostrils of clueless inhalations;
A soon-to-be- frustrated traveler cries!
Your forecasters do their faculties stretch,
For their job that does the future sketch,
The processes, some science, some puzzle,
To the outsider, a shotgun’s dark nozzle!
Openly praise I do Meteorology,
Just as we freely, Theology,
For our aeroplanes’ safe schedules,
And avoided typhoons, in their own right, needless.
Bad weather: a reason to evacuate a zone,
Biting cold dying to visit the bone,
Our bodies in voluminous coats conceal,
This done to shivers heal.
On the feet of an underdog drops victory,
A world-rated team packaging her defeat,
All the wind-aided records of history,
The shoddy from champions one could never beat,
In an unaccustomed weather playing,
And from success track straying.
Bad weather: a sad news for outdoor activities,
In the face staring festivities,
Every young day wearing a stormy countenance,
A prelude to hurrying priests of eminence,
In the interception of rainfall versed,
Never failing to reproduce the rehearsed.