Long Picnic Poems
Long Picnic Poems. Below are the most popular long Picnic by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Picnic poems by poem length and keyword.
i need to stop frowning and epitomizing
and sell this Caddy to the Cardinal
trying to let it miss your attention won't fly
since writing is speech even if somewhat removed
or fit only for bouncy news anchor banter
pancake makeup a bit too aflame
like they do in shadow theater
where the container is the contained
because we can still index the cornucopia
eff you said the furry little May Pole Bunny
you can be sure he was in on it too
along with the Hen in the Willow
the Great Flaming Spiral in the Sky
and the nuns of St. Manacle
doing their Plantation Rebel Dance
with cascade of equally herkimer antecedents
perpetually enthused with the mystery of tomorrow
just don't try to tell me how to move my eyelids
smoke signals will always take care of that
cascading across the clacking copper contacts
in a total lack of continuity all at once
it is a pigeon tongue spoken in barter
barely able to walk after the derision of linguists
lobbed horseshoes across the barricades
against surgeons wielding kitchen knives
on a search and destroy mission
for chopped liver epicures from the Bank of Winter
living dead men's dreams was no picnic
memes eating my soul like red worms
only my degree from the School for the Sickly
standing between me and the Necromancers
who were emphatically not house trained
my collective unconscious operation manual
tossed on the burn pile half a life ago
now dumbed down to syntactically correct
in infinitesimal quantities with a Nefertiti smile
my mind a bordello of interpretation
God is not dead he is passe etc.
a raised by wolves feral non-conformist
everything orbits everything else
and that's space for you
which will bend yer crank kid
unless you can get your mood to swing
out from the nether realms of mourning
and the agony of oblique signals
written with the ***** of Satan
shaking money from your pockets again
a Conniving Backstabbing Bastard production
he hated coercion like he hated licorice
he was revolution incarnate all fresh and rosy
it was a kosher Pentecost event
tried quoting Lenin but it was too easy
the proletariat is people in a pickle
the dueling cucumbers of class warfare
now I'm on a dozen watch lists
followed by Diana's paparazzi
to this claustrophobic cinemaplex
and its temporal artery of light
at 3 in the afternoon
a good cheap remedy
following a bad diagnosis
.
A whale in a pail is far more active in a gale or in copious amounts of hail. Putting money into sharks is a shifty act involving the shuffling of coats in cloakrooms. And clown costumes placed in the bowls of women's frames are reserved for the elite attire of lemmon lipped bowler heads whose acidic tongue holds the weaponry speeches of tomorrows gore. Pain is a painted potato placed with the pilots to place on a place numbered out and planned on maps arriving by facetious fax machines whose many layered buttons seek to halt a single growing grass level with a shard spoken key. Turning a keyboard to an angle one can visit the highest climate but coinage is best reserved for a large bull with a blue tie. Behind many layers. Many layers is not many lettuces it is merely many lanes. And lanes are lovely on a summer evening returning from the abbey to the house in eighteen fifty-three in long beautiful blue dress with fancy earrings and hair wound in a tight bun. Looking around it is unsurprising that history repeats in the timeless whorl akin to stirring an acre pan of stew or making sandwiches for two hundred people at a picnic. Societal swamps seek some swanky shuffle starting storms. And all the while the little pixies dance in the trees. The unicorns prance, the fairies fly round and round, and all other realmes folk sigh at the endless processions of humans making endless chain of woe. Cause no pattern to rise up from a paper print. For if you do your whole world and house will be prints causing visitors to arrive in many windows to create a karmic reaction and a reaction is a realism and a responsive reach but not a retch. Little frog hums in the kitchen cupboard. He is very bored today and would like to go visit the pond but the machinery placed there ensures it is not safe to hop and when hopping it often is the case that shots are fired from the artillery of the ant people in plastic helmets. They move akin to a swarm of kettledrums on a backlit of carbonised baking trays. Powder that then. Beetroot faced woman in that raspberry printed dress. And to encourage the wrath of a walnut is to embellish a multicolumn of static electricity. Wow. Mish mash mush then. Hahahaha the dancing in the bathroom door hahaha mixed-use mixers mingling mangy mincemeat. Xxxxxxx prese tart structure Paden tar xxxxxxx invertebrates z Z Z Z Z Z Z Z Z Z THAT;
Form:
Dragon Slayer! Dragon Slayer! Just say it isn’t so! Just Look at that cutesy face!
Behind the scary teeth, fire, and smoke… Choke…Ah… he’s gentle to embrace!
Moody, sulky, get even-ish, is truly he. But to have him, is so cool… and so hot!
And, I truly do mean Hot! Fire retardant suit’s a must, as there’s fire… often, a lot!
He’s just a baby, waiting to be taught. I tried to teach him, how to fly me thru the air.
Instead, he dumped me in a treetop, it took all day to get down, until I despaired.
To help me down, he lit the tree afire, as his wings errantly fanned the roaring flames.
I jumped, and he smiled a toothy grin, because I was safe, he steadfastly claims.
I’m on crutches, nearly bent his tail. But he loves me, you can tell, see he puffs at me!
Grandpa Troll gives us time out, when there’s a tiff, as my dragon, is petulant, you see.
At times, he sits across the lake from me, blowing fire and smoke ¾ across the lake.
He’s such a sensitive thing, he took my couch to the lake, upon sitting, it did break.
I got upset and called him fat…he tried to steam me, as fire is such, a No- No.
For, he had learned to not throw fire… at least when Grandpa Troll is, there, tho…
He needs to be first, the center of attention, seen in his cunning life’s plots, galore!
He taught my Trolls a happy dance, while waiting their first boat ride. Silly Dragon!
They sunk my boat! It's believed, he was getting even for being last in line, you think?
And he stomped off, perturbed, when told no more rides until the boat is unsink-ed.
He’d been last, for breaking my roof for another (fourth) time, but it will soon be fixed.
You see, he gets lonely, while waiting for me, to come outside to play, the little minx!
He CAN be hard on insurance, as I got cancelled and my bills are higher than a kite!
And when the Supreme Leader of the Universe, came to our picnic on a motorbike…
Dragon, accidentally, released his Dogs of War, while sitting on his Harley Bike.
Honestly, the flat tires can be fixed, the body unbent, and the spokes were given back.
I explained they weren’t HIS toothpicks… he truly looked sad as sad can be, at that.
Never fear, we caught the Dogs of War before they had time to… do great harm.
You can just imagine how great this dragon will eventually be, when all grown up.
Dragon Slayer, indeed! Grandpa Troll gave him to me. He’s sweet as sweet can be!
I stand on the highway of hope getting ready for the train to go on a trip to the mountain sphere, the passengers are pouring in, the seats are filling up, and everyone is in a mad rush. What on earth is going on? The passengers have been here before the break of dawn and excitement is all over the lawn. The cities and towns are flooded with lights and everyone has made an early sacrifice, smiles and laughter are everywhere and the people have nothing to fear. The highway of hope is taking me to the show, you can get an all-inclusive ticket wherever you go; you have a ticket for the train ride, the theatre, restaurant, cinema, the football games or just to go jogging up the lane. You have tickets to go shopping or to work out at the gym; there is a bus and a train for everything and there is one reserved only for music, singing and dancing. You can ride the bus or train any time of the day and your mornings and evening will never waste away, every ticket you buy will contribute to the blue sky and your donations will not die. Meet me at the highway of hope and I will show you where to go, the mood has change and joy is spreading everywhere. If you have nothing to do, put some snack in a bag and join the picnic train, and view all the terrain. The goal is to make a million in an hour and leave the sorrows in the showers. You will have something formidable to look forward to at the end of the day and your burdens and stress will surely roll away. Come with me to the highway of hope and join, the campaign fundraising train .Every ticket you buy will raise my ambition; every train you ride will elevate you to the sky, the numbers are growing and the passengers are swelling and my life has just begun. I have five-dollar tickets, ten-dollar ticket, a thousand- dollar tickets and any money tickets. There is a bus and train for every price and someone to show you how to roll the dice. If you don’t want to ride the train, the bus will do the same; a hundred bus and a hundred train is parked up on the highway of hope in every state so buy your tickets and join the masquerade. The goal is to make a hundred and fifty million dollars a day in the all inclusive bus and train ride on the highway of hope in all the fifty states so join the fundraising effort before it's too late.
Meet me on the highway of hope anytime of the day and don't delay.
Suburban Spring
(4.15.10)
Springtime fills the air,
like laughing gas.
(Or maybe more like whiskey.)
The suburbs are drunk on the nectar of it's dawn.
Middle-class houses
are starting to dance.
(Or maybe they're just wobbling.)
They vomit whole families onto their lawn.
I watch them the same way dogs watch TV:
Confused and intrigued,
with a slight urge to pee.
The father cuts grass,
like a sleepwalker.
(Or maybe more like a zombie -
Ravenous for cheap beer, instead of brains.)
A six pack later,
he starts washing his car.
(Or watering his driveway.)
He's spreading on wax so he's set when it rains.
The mother kneels in dirt,
tending the garden.
(More like digging in a sandbox.)
Her spade is rusty. (Figuratively, at least.)
A sunset later,
she cooks family dinner.
(Or maybe orders some pizza.)
(If every mouth is fed, she can call it a feast.)
I watch them the same way dogs watch TV.
The son plays war games,
dying for fun.
(Or maybe more for practice.)
He whines about fruit drinks, as well as the heat.
A full pitcher later,
tweaking on sugar,
(Or maybe just corn starch.)
the war escalates, 'til its time to go eat.
The daughter makes a picnic,
inviting her toys.
(Or maybe not.)
(Her plastic spread can only spread so thin!)
After the tea time,
she's off picking flowers.
(Or maybe weeds.)
(As long as they're pretty, there's a vase that they'll fit in.)
They gather, as a family, at the table to say grace.
They hold each others' hands and say, "Amen."
(And proceed to stuff their face.)
The dog sits by the boy -
Loyal and true.
(Or maybe just hungry.)
He drools as he stares from the corners of his eyes.
After dinner,
he offers to help with the dishes.
(Or maybe he demands it.)
The boy sneaks him a bite. The dog is not surprised.
Bedtime comes soon after.
The kids are sent to brush their teeth.
(Or maybe just to run the sink.)
They put on their jammies, and to bed, they go.
After tucking them in,
the parents watch TV.
(Or maybe they just dream they do,
sleeping in its glow.)
The dog is changing channels,
looking for a better show.
Confused and intrigued,
he pees on the carpet below.
Jack is learning so much at home, he’s bright and cheerful and never alone,
there’s always something good to do, like playing with bubbles or a trip to the zoo.
Experiments with water and soap, testing if objects sink or float,
painting and drawing are so much fun, there’s so much to do, we’ve just begun.
Last week we went to BCLM, and learned how coal was mined back then,
no shower for you, when you got home,
a tin bath it was, but you didn’t moan.
No electric for your light, no tv to watch at night,
no pre-pack food or take-aways,
no fridges, freezers or microwaves.
History, science and a life of nowt, all learned about in a fun day out,
to actually see, with their own eyes, helps children’s brains to realize.
Being told things read from a book, is not the same as having a look,
to experience things through seeing and doing,
teaches us more in this life we are living.
A picnic in the museum grounds, then jump on the bus to look around,
down stairs first, to take a peek, then upstairs, to choose a seat.
Into the town we went on the bus, a man stood waiting and waved at us,
cobbled streets and lumps and bumps, down the road, past the petrol pumps.
Then to the narrow-boat for a trip, through the tunnels, watch that drip!
The limestone is white and crystal like, then out of the dark and into the light.
Legging the boat, through the narrow gap, is hard work for 2 at the back,
but we get through and come out at last, Jack’s glad he didn’t live in the past.
The chain-maker is doing a demonstration, he has a chain, for a link to go on,
he makes the link as we watch a while, “you would start at age 6”, he tells Jack with a smile.
So much fun we’ve had today, laughing and learning along the way,
looking at things, we’d never see, while stuck in school, at least till 3.
Jack looks at me with a smile in his eyes “thank you nanny, it was a lovely surprise”
“I didn’t know we were going today, to that museum to learn and play”
” I love being taught at home by you and seeing all the things I can do,
like making cakes and playing chess and doing experiments that make a mess”
We get home and Jack sits on my knee, “I’ll get that book you bought for me”
he reads his book to me out loud, I tell him ” I love you, you make me so proud”
hereunder is served some poetry pouches full of love,
dear reader, stir them as you like,
if you wish you may crack them to pour into mouth,
you may smear them on your body
or you may sprinkle them on the ground
and then chant the name of god
with love and enjoyment
1.
the simplicity that rolls down
from the body of the sweet-meat
made by my mother
let it bring light
to our radish-red love-story
to hear or to notice
love
does not need
putting an ear on the wall
of the wall-street journal
the bottle could be filled
from the voice
when you go to fill the bottle
you would see that everywhere
the arrangement of picnic is ready
when i want to take part in that feast
my neighbours would drive me towards
the home
although i’ve spent all my life
running behind the love
2.
who’s won the muddy-battle
was yesterday’s politics
my addiction is actually to cater
the pouch of love
to develop all vitamins
and all bathrooms
people say you don’t love
the claps of the rats
yet i’ll come down
from the branch of a guava-tree
as a wave-of-shopping-mall
to the lake of your love
now i’ll jump out
from this computer screen
to register a kiss
on your lips
don't miss to applaud
by clapping the hands
3.
the heart is half-sunk
in the window
to some extent
in the lipstick too
on the dinner-plate
there is the feelings of the lord
that means
i’ve to be burnt more
i do agree
i would become
the sculpture of khajuraho
this happenings may have been
the right search for love
on either-side of which
a green is being worked out
by the nostalgic-cycle
whose colour-texture is very much harappa
which has too many geometric-memories
4.
an undertone is speaking
from within the solitude
now i’m in very much
distress
or i’m in love
i don’t know my love is what-for
may be that’s an arrangement only
so easily are those interactions
stitched with words
strenuous or effortless
in flight
initiated
with seclusion
but when in the sinking of the playfulness
i write the games of the street-charmers
the birds again and again
pierce the archery
thus becoming ashes
through travelling
in time-gaps still
the audacity to compose poems
on you
I remember, I remember my garden of joy,
It gave me great happiness when I was a boy
At the bottom of the garden was a delightful stream,
When alone, I would sit beside it, meditate and dream.
In the garden stood an ancient apple tree,
In the spring time its coloured buds were a joy to see.
In the autumn the russet apples were harvested in,
Our neighbours also enjoy surplus apples from our bin.
At summertime my two friends would come in and play cricket,
Game stopped when the batsman knocked the ball into the thicket.
On summer evenings Mum or Dad read us a story in the eventide,
Other children came in, lemonade and biscuits mum did provide.
Subject to weather mum packed a picnic on a Sunday afternoon,
To meet the local villagers, to gossip, farmers sold their eggs, that was a boon The villagers would meet, discus each others fortune, on the village green, There all the local gossip everyone could tell or glean.
The young ones played football, cricket or handball,
The girls often beat the boys, that did not go down well.
Some times in the evening Dad would take me down to listen to the local band, Some music I did not like, some I thought was grand.
I left home at twenty one to work in the city,
My little village is now a small town, what a pity.
I have photo’s to remind me of my happy past,
With an expanding world villages like mine will never last.
(Originally wrote it as a song, but I like it like this as well.)
A shooting star
make a wish,
give me a kiss
on the hood of the car
I taste your lips,
it's the sweetest thing.
We're all alone
while the crickets sing.
With staring eyes,
see glowing fire-flies.
And shooting stars light up the skies.
A perfect night
with a gentle breeze
whistling through the trees.
It feels so right
as tensions ease.
So relaxed
just lay back
and taste the fruit
our peaches snack.
While feelings rise
and shooting stars light up our skies.
That fresh air scent
so good to your nose
catches on our clothes.
A night well spent,
together with you.
It's just us two,
The moon shining bright,
it's our only light.
While on this night,
in the grass we lye
as shooting stars light up the sky.
Crashing waves,
soothing beachfront sounds
wash out our sandcastle mounds.
Could stay for days,
on this sandy beach.
See the stars we reach
over the ocean sees.
And on the tides
it never dies.
Is what we realize
as shooting stars light up our skies.
Our quiet hill,
with no more racket.
Just a picnic basket.
The wind is still
under a tree.
Just you and me
eat off your belly.
So, so happy.
We wait till night
right before sunrise.
To watch the shooting stars light up the skies.
A shooting star.
Makes a light so bright,
it lights up the night.
Now here we are.
Lost in love
the kind you only dream of.
On the hood of the car.
To forever feel like this,
is what I make my wish.
When you wish upon,
a shooting star.
The time's eleven eleven.
A meteor shower
on the top of the hour.
Your smile is heaven
and you aim it at me.
It's all I see
a good memory
while you hold the key,
to me inside.
Fills me with butterflies
while shooting stars light up our skies.
Just us two
no one else around
your voice the sweetest sound.
I say to you,
that I love you.
You say you love me too,
while you take my hand.
Our toes buried in the sand.
Get lost in your eyes,
completely mesmerized
as shooting stars light up the skies.
Shooting stars,
hoods of cars,
late night wishes,
lighthouse kisses.
The moments ours,
just go with it.
Sunday picnics,
one way tickets.
And I got my wish it
all started with just one kiss.
How I love the taste of your lips.
Santa! Oh, Santa! Please listen to me. It’s for Dragon! I’m begging you, please!
Dragon didn't mean to be naughty! He’s crying! He’s even down, on his knees!
Christmas is coming! He wants to be nice! Heaven knows what, he’ll do next!
It’s been quite a week! Beyond his control! And, of course, you know, the rest!
First, he swooped in to help an old Lady, as she tried to walk across a street.
But the wind from his wings; caught her and blew her away, and into a heap!
He volunteered: as a candy stripper, helping patients, at a hospital, without reward.
No smoking allowed, with the seriously ill, his Fire blew up, that one LITTLE ward.
He raked all the leaves for old Mister Brown, for free; who was so very, pleased.
He gave Dragon an at-a boy! And added a slap on his back, making him sneeze.
Which startled a spark, from Dragons great mouth. It’s a pity… what they say…
Mr. Brown’s house won’t be finished rebuilding, till… next spring and a day.
Dragon helped with the neighborhood school playground… monitoring the swings.
Upon hearing the comment, “I want to go higher”, they found Space, was achieved.
Now, sad and so lost, Dragon checked out a place, Google Earth had blurred out…
Jets forced him down, it was a secret location, now wiki-leaks-men run, all about.
At an Old Folks Picnic, Dragon grabbed 2 oldsters, then sat on a 3rd, one windy day.
Stopping them from being blown away, the 3rd leaves intensive care, soon, they say.
Baby sitting, a baby that kept crying, Dragon grew so upset, smoke billowed forth.
The firemen decided, until his smoke is under control, ‘no babysitting’, henceforth!
Santa is great! This we all definitely know! To get all these problems under control...
He said ‘don’t try so hard!’ As he found Dragon’s heart not only nice, but pure gold!
Peace was ensured, as he sent Dragon home… for his family to enjoy, and to enfold!
Now life will be better, for all! I’m sure!… Or so I do hope, to behold!
But… Pardon me, Santa… Did you just… say?… He’s officially nice, in your view?
Santa, perhaps a warning is due. His wish list, 2 miles long, is coming to you!
For all, it’d been quite a week, mission accomplished, as Santa gave a knowing wink!
‘Ho! Ho! Ho! Merry Christmas! Peace on Earth’, even with Dragon around, me-thinks.