Long Pickle Poems
Long Pickle Poems. Below are the most popular long Pickle by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Pickle poems by poem length and keyword.
The Dill, of course, are here now, but I fear
the Sour will be coming in about an hour.
They’ll arrive with relatives – those Half Sour.
Pickles straight from India have come. One’s Lime.
The other – Mango – likes a real good time.
The Polish too are here, resembling Kosher.
The difference is the Polish just seem gaucher.
Like wall flowers they sit. They need attention!
I know the perfect ones to ease the tension -
The ones to welcome everyone - the Sweet.
See them mingle with the Polish that they meet!
Pickled Pepper’s here using his old line
of “picked a peck.” I think too long in brine
that one’s been sitting. Kosher thinks that’s great,
though we wish his garlic breath would abate!
The odd one here’s Cinnamon. It’s not Christmas yet!
Well, the more the merrier. But whoever let
*the Kool Aids in? This party’s not for kids.
Jarred Pickles, seeing this, have flipped their lids!
I hope the Sours don’t ruin our celebration
coming from their salty fermentation.
This party will be anything but hellish
for Gherkin’s here along with one Sweet Relish!
Aug. 18, 2022
for It's A Pickle Party Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Mystic Rose Rose
*Note: Kool Aid Pickles combine the traditional pickle brine with Kool Aid and sugar. Also Cinnamon is a pickle I learned of while researching pickles, as well as the Lime and Mango from India!
Enervated and energized after cold shower
the perfect tonic to gin body though o'clock
wee hours August thirty one two thousand
nineteen - natural buzz to stave off relished
sleep, thus refueled with zest able to chop
chop thru printed material (dictionary seat
of pants newpage turner with a-z characters)
and no crock, but refreshing douse of chill
kept mien ole body electric able to dial back
feeling akin to soap bar man tiredness life
came to buoy quite some hours with joy de
vivre vigor analogous to morning dove (or as
if submerged smooth as ivory into Irish Spring),
until... bubbliness peaked than plunged yours
truly into fast shuteye descent lulled into land
o' dreams courtesy double fan tussy "white
noise," until I awoke with a start, (albeit heavy
grogginess clinging fast - thick spidery whirled
wide cob webbed glommed threads) unable to
offset toe tilly stark realization bare little feet
(plaintively oinking higglety pigglety) felt like
ice cubes, whereby skimpy blanket inadequate
to allow, enable, and provide adequate quality
sleep, hence inspiration piqued to attempt cob
bullying poem gifted (thank you watermelon
pickle) despite raggedy state, not optimal state
string words together rendering sense and cents
ability birthing feeble attempt to sweat out small
medium thoughts lodged within fifty plus shades
gray atrophied matter - begetting literary stillborn
whereby intensive care unit medical team resorted
to heroic measures applying revolutionary punk
chew weighted equilibrium until state of the art
poetic license intervention wrought sudden jaw
dropping miracle – whipped courtesy last ditch
Shakespearean divine resuscitation, (plus all the
king's men and all the king's horses) rendered
dead as a doornail absolute zero metaphoric
lifeless limp bizkit verse, neither lickety split
rhyme nor reason could explain tectonic shift
witnessing pluperfect (donned with little non hex
pence booties) manifestation vital signs, but
metered metrical blue feet in toto - oz needed
close monitoring to ward off 10,000 maniacs.
I may be all wet, but I sure ain't no bluenose!
And, while it's none of my beeswax,
Let's have a bull session-lesson !
Take a gander around, and tell the guy with the cheaters
I'll give him an ear-full, if he'll just hang around
There's a gatecrasher here..., I heard, on the level
He's zozzled on hooch, a big lollygagger!
He staggered in blotto, with a ciggy on his lips
Sipping on bootleg, and lookin' for whoopee!
He's the fall guy, (I've heard), for a weird, double cross
Here comes the hoofer, the one with the gams
That vamp is a pushover, a gun- moll, man chaser
A real hotsy-totsy!, she dresses real spiffy
Her toy is a shiv, she's the Jane, Real McCoy,
makes a sap out of guys, who carry a torch
Bumps them off, on their own front porch !
And that's the "Big Cheese", who runs the speakeasy
He thinks he's high hat, but is full of baloney
He gives all the dames, the real "heebie-jeebies"
Just a poor drug-store cowboy... filled with nothin' but hooey
Hard-boiled. they come, gold-diggers and hoods
I've been beating my gums, and I'm dying of thirst
This is the berries, been the real bees knees!
Oh, it has been swell, while chewing the fat!
But, facts are the facts, on the up and up
Well, bye, Buttercup,......the jig is up
I'm serious Sam, in a serious jam
The truth of the matter is, that I'm on the lam
You don't know for nothin', stay out of a pickle !...
Remember my friend, don't take wooden nickels !!
______________________________________________________
For Deb's Contest: Talk The Talk, Walk The Walk (1920's Slang)
6/14/15
I got myself into quite a pickle
when sitting my driving test,
My nerves were making me jumpy
but my instructor said just try your best
The examiner looked like Godzilla -
he didn’t try to put me at ease,
My mouth was as dry as the desert
and you could hear the knock of my knees
I proceed to perform some manoeuvres
my three point turn’s timed to perfection,
The examiner tells me to take the next left
I turn right - I’ve got no sense of direction!
He thuds his hand on the dashboard,
says I must execute an emergency stop,
So I hit the brakes when he tells me
and I just avoid hitting a cop!
I begin to drive along the highway
when a cyclist weaves and cuts me up,
I step on the gas and fly past him
quite determined to pass the young pup!
The examiner yells at me to slow down ...
I quickly sense that something’s not right,
There’s a stench drifting up from his trousers
perhaps he had a duff curry last night!
He says he passes wind when he’s stressed out
I open the windows before we get gassed,
He abandons me at the test centre -
for many reasons I don’t think I’ve passed!
2/19/20
Apt choice of lines in collage show:
Craft of rhyme scheme where echoes sift,
Opt old verse brine to pickle flow;
Lure of new theme in clever drift,
List of sure draft where feelings swirl;
Ask that clear chimes can reason well,
Grain of verse craft as pattern twirls;
Etch sensuous times as meaning dwells.
Mind such sound finds in poignant thrills,
Observe thought plain in sure refrain;
Soar where poise signs a curious will,
Ample fine gain as collage strains;
Incline dear heart that charming grace,
Calm stillness arts in wonder's face.
Leon Enriquez
29 March 2017
Singapore
looking at you looking good without trying
appreciating how blessed i feel that you chose me
this is why i never question God
He just puts all beautification in the right places at the right time
i love how each night you lightly kiss my left hand before bed
then you give me a sweet pickle peck on my left cheek
after that you gently massage my left foot with your left foot
you finally put me to sleep by whispering in my left ear 'You Are RIGHT For Me'
i swallow an emotionally seasoned smile, give you a light tap on your comfotably cushioned bottom and whisper back in your right ear 'You LEFT Me Speechless Ever Since AMEN....'
I wondered if owls became depressed
And if they ever cry
Then instead of saying who
They just wondered why
If a man pulls pickles from a jar
At his place of work
Does he become a pickle plucker
Or a gherkin jerk
My marriage lasted forty years
It's been a lot of fun
The reason I'm still living is
My wife don't own a gun
When she calls me honey dew
I really get suspicious
Because it's honey dew the ironing
Or honey dew the dishes
When something needs fixing at my house
I do it right away
Why put off until tomorrow
What you can screw up today
Thanks to genetic research
The future's bright it shows
You'll be able to choose your children's ears
And even pick their nose.
Another day, another way
Another year, another tear
Another place, different space
Old book, new look
Old fears, new tears
Look back, different tack
Loose ends, old friends
Say goodbye, heavy sigh
Another pickle, life's fickle
Must fight, no light
Money spent, anger pent
New sun, nothing done
Seeds sown, food grown
Another hour, pretty flower
Birds tweet, so sweet
Cold frost, plants lost
Bent over, search clover
No luck, still stuck
Blue sky, can't fly
Soul bare, I care
Drugged nutter, dirty gutter
Back lane, insane
Hair lank, face blank
Empty mind, chose blind
Find peace, wars cease
Old world, flag furled
Modern world, Brain curled
No room, such gloom
Brain flop, full stop.
~ to the tune of 'Jingle Bells,' please ~
Tushies slide, what a ride
slipping on the ice
All we need’s a beaming bride
and a few bouquets of rice
Where’s the groom, in his room
with Cinderella’s mice
Stitching up a triple-plus size
for his buxom bride’s bo-som… ooom!
It’s Christmas Eve, and Santa’s drunk
so he can be the preacher
Administer last rites instead of I do’s
come morn, he’s ‘Rudolfo Screecher’
O, Pickle Balls and Paddle Bells
they’re the tunes we croon
When the bride screams, ‘What?’
Spooks begin to strut ~
by the light of a cardboard Moon
O, Pickle Balls and Paddle Bells
the only songs we sing
When the bride cries, ‘Wha hoppened?’
We tell her, Popcorn’s Poppin’ ~
for her wedding meal next June
Way down deep in the cushiness of the Germany forest
There is a mystical dwelling built by U.M. Borest.
Some of the oldest oaks are fully aware that it is there.
Designed by a worrisome sorcerer with super coarse hair.
Borest is a Bumpfraut, who can disappear at will.
He can invisibalize his home, changing it to pickle dill.
You might sense a mushroom house lurking in soft moss
It is not visible to everyone, especially not to those who are cross.
I can tell you nothing else because forest secrets are deep
If you hear loud snoring though U.M. Borest is asleep.
It’s best to tiptoe past the oak and use whispers near the trees.
If you are lucky you might catch a wisp of a brownie in the breeze.