Long Pinocchio Poems
Long Pinocchio Poems. Below are the most popular long Pinocchio by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Pinocchio poems by poem length and keyword.
The penchant of a national leader.
can show malignancy in things he says;
things for which his mind needs a proof-reader.
Some tempers malign as rivals start to quiz
Views have drawn the cancer, cacoethes.
A writer’s mania – cacoethes scribendi -
appears when terrorists write a manifesto.
Do over-engaged minds stage what’s trendy?
obsessive was the groove of the fluent Victor Hugo
and fictional, compulsive liar – Pinocchio.
Take Hugo’s masterpiece, Les Miserables.
With surplus words, intense cravings we find
yield lawless acts, theft, prostitution which rob
disadvantaged folk of their conventional mind.
Poverty's victims are prone to spell-bind.
Suspended Animation De Rigueur Among "Joe King" Six Pack
Yepper, once body functions cease
asper this ole codger,
mere seconds after expiration,
sans existential lease
immortality avails rubbery piece
of flesh christened
Matthew Scott Harris,
the legal mouthpiece
decreed by living will
after organ activity doth cease
immediate measures taken
courtesy Doctor Demento to decrease
any further senescence
till heartening no brainer
preserves jellied rolled masterpiece
wordsmith, meanwhile, I can sublease
these bag of bloodless love bones
done deal, all yours for trifle bro
pittance costing no more
than one Pinocchio
plying attached strings,
yea kinda like ma's yoyo
mine limp fingers needed to pull
performing fetes resembling
dead spindleshanks longfellow
all the while appearing as cheap trick
courtesy super tramping marionette...lo
taking me across world wide web,
where yours truly housed in Tokyo
hotel, never tiring globe trotting
performing one man deadened show
after earning so much dough...
necessity will arise to call tow
truck (mebbe more'n one),
when after bajillion years
would utter whoa
abundant flush with moolah,
a sought after Joe Schmoe
earning hand over rigor mortis fist
pile of money that doth grow
by leaps and bounds - hiho
exceeding penury, when struggling as poet
Cain and Abel to silence
those opposed to Roe
versus Wade, incumbent upon minor woe
awaiting future technology so
rejuvenating lifeless chap easily
mistaken for scarecrow
can carry on camping y'know
whaddya mean...
not to leave ye in suspense
but gotta join grateful dead, and gotta go
Adieu!
Let's ponder last time Rego the ego was over yonder in the Iberico peninsula ..our hero was fonder of the wonder of Ronda but now does wander through the beauty & fruity booty that cutie Oporto does bestow… (in house joke...there is no radio embargo for this rhyming cargo so back to you in the studio)
Can't recall if we ever talked at all about how we virtually stalked Porto
A viral spiral as we did dream and scheme of moving there for a mo
Then balked too late deranged climate all changed mate too scorchio
Burned by the rage on the centre stage of a teenage tyro turned pyro
But what do you know ho ho ho…it's the Rego Ego in Oporto show
Jammy mutt strut out of any rut from Redditch hut far & away you yo yo
Smut of getting half cut a holiday foray glut such a sl*t.. a true pro or ho
But tut tut apropos bitter blow new shi**er low an at home sitter can't go
My career did park it… left the market now sign on for giro with my biro
Crow finances a foe.. so woe of ambassadors not in a row you flying solo
We should be tourers toe to toe explorers like Marco Polo with me in tow
As long as about assado not Fardo rather hear a song from Nelly Furtado
Naughtiness not haughtiness to and fro cheeky ebb & flow of going gung ho
Know your next photo will bring the frustration of a great crustacean crescendo
Gasping at the rasping sheen of a lean barbecued sardine no echo of Pinocchio
Ah grasping a calamari safari love the art deco but you can shove the prosecco
No braggadocio clasping fino or nerdy vinho verde or scarlet harlot starlet tinto
Hard for Euro aficionado as you scoff avocado & lardo tartlet from the mercado
Hope foody bingo is bravissimo dope & bellissimo though know is wrong lingo
So hey ho or nonny no bonny Rego in Porto is brassier than Portugeezer Luis Figo
Bigger teaser & pleaser classier than gusto & bravado of another dynamo Eusebio
Drinking sinking fort-ified wine quaff port like it's a sport holding court on the Douro
Envy piqued oh Rego never a fuddy duddy ruddy cheeked plucky bloody lucky so & so
I am becoming.
Perception; reality.
Every human mind has its own duality.
Our good side, our bad side;
Life seems to always get the best of me.
Empty, of anything, that they claim to know that I need.
So empty, of feeling,
When all who criticize become unworthy of truly interpreting me.
Without a voice, I am powerless.
Situations arise that give me strength to confess, that I am a mess.
Disorganized, my thoughts are hidden underneath;
I search the depths of my soul to see what I can reap.
Words all scrambled; put them into order.
The writings of a word-thief in a mind of word-warder’s.
Left speechless, when all I say is meaningless.
The canvass is not unused, it has just not been revealed yet.
Artists are there at the start of things;
I am but a binary star upon a life made from strings.
Pull my rip-cord and let the words all flow;
Embrace the darkness we keep inside and let it show.
I am your Pinocchio.
You are my puppet mistress and my eternal muse;
I am just a thing to be used to amuse.
Your touch of love upon my love heart in pieces,
Let’s me become a ray of light inspired by your wish for a sun
And could you give me a hug please?
All light flows from your soul into me;
I breathe you in to let you see what I hide within.
I am becoming a better man, now I am being a better human being;
I am growing into the lover I always thought I could become.
You take away the fear and let me become what I should have been.
It is because of you that I am able to become something from nothing
And now this poem is written and your heart has been won…
Now my work is done.
(C)2016 Aa Harvey. All Rights Reserved.
... stalactites hung like dystopian snot from a statue
her brain was frozen and formed ice in her mind
a lacuna without inlet or outlet arrested in time
mind’s skates tied up in bundles of snowflakes
gloves off for defeat with all speed set in arrest
not even her black woollen hat showed any signs
of thawing heart-warming emotions for comfort
empty speech bubbles covered her scraped tongue
where a mouth-watering waterfall should pursue
a pick axe with nothing left to dissect or construct
dangled from a callous corpus callosum in pain
unable to connect right left wrong or left to correct
this was not what searching tranquillity had promised
in contrast transcendence wept at chilly flood gates
a voice that had so much to part with in a landscape
of permanent layers of verglas onto vaporous rime
she wished for some slime or yuck glopping goo
but permafrost refused a glimpse of impermanence
a fool thought it funny to stick a carrot in her nostril
helpless she could not leave the vegetative state of affairs
clung to a string of crystal beads at pearly gates of no return
this is a lie I am Pinocchio at the threshold of truth
a metaphor unable to break the spell of apocalypse
unfulfilled amphora and vessel that can’t even leak
incontinence at the pointless orifice of evacuation
without one drop of hope for cataracts to dissolve
a lonely icebreaker with nothing left to crack open
where a firm skull should harbour my residual flow
when a polar bear embraced her unbalanced spectre
shared his white furry coat under a mantle of darkness
shales of introjection floated away from the solar eclipse
which had sheltered her from a charcoaled manic cauldron
touching middle grounds in between scorching euphoria
and lifeless apathy just long enough to remember that she had
not taken her medication and the self-help manual was useless
sometimes catharsis has to wait for one small lucid moment
when a beak meets a beaker and cascades start from a dribble
I believed the whole world would welcome me
when I left home, and moved to the city.
But it wasn't like what I thought it would be
behind its neon lights: there's no pity,
while success doesn't come with a guarantee.
I was disenchanted, to say the least,
'twixt expectations and reality.
And my enthusiasm quickly decreased:
as the cost of living caught up with me,
and anxiety's climb sharply increased.
Flying high, carried by the winds of hope,
I shed the innocence that bound my wings.
For, eager to do more than barely cope:
no longer a puppet; I cut the strings
that had over time morphed into a rope.
Pinocchio had to learn the hard way
that sometimes what we think we want the most,
is, but an illusion: that fades away.
For dreams continue to move the goalpost;
whenever frustration comes into play.
The wood is too seasoned, the grain hoary.
the moppet has grown insane,
its wood now riddled with timeless lies.
A cat in a dark corner will not look at it.
Mice cower under its grim shadow.
In a twilit kitchen an old man mumbles
as he gums a boiled egg
while deranged eyes peer through walls.
Pinocchio is old,
he has been set on a hook.
fibrous sinews dangle
from his notched frame.
knotted veins grind together
inside the oaken cage of his chest.
Made to imitate and deceive
he has become what we dare not look upon:
a hollowness within a dead core.
In the potbellied stove,
logs pray with crackling flames
hope to never become that thing
that hangs and glares,
a wood wormed ruination,
its painted adolescence flaking now
to a crackbrained fantoccini
gone feral.
We know what Mars looks like from pictures sent by satellite
and in the near future we'll send expeditions to find graphite,
but in the meantime can we send someone to Mars
other than astronauts: isn't it an amazing and lovely planet?
I have a fantastic and bizarre idea for this coming Christmas:
and the only catch is that Santa can't travel on a sleight!
We should have a serious chat with Santa and reveal this fantastic plan
to him, he may turn it down with his infamous grin;
let's explain to him how it will work in plan words:
he must learn how to fly a small spaceship and head to distant Mars!
On Mars children don't know that Christmas is: gifts and carols;
it's time the earthly kids interacted with the little Martians with large, purple eyes,
but be warned they may they have big ears and very long noses
like Pinocchio, the wooden boy, does it mean that they're mischievous and tell lies?
Will Santa travel to Mars and meet those kids who may look strange?
How about the language barrier? What must he do to communicate?
Santa may ask you to give up your presents in exchange for their friendship;
aren't you anxious to meet them: isn't a thrill to make a voyage on a spaceship?
Mary had a little lamb
The birth was quite a sensation
It should go down in the history books
She needed a lot of sedation
Pinocchio had a very long nose
It grew when telling a lie
Geppetto couldn't keep it from growing
No matter how hard he tried
Three little piggies went tripping along
To the butcher, they were the target
Who was bent on chopping these piggies up
To sell 'em at the local market
Baa baa black sheep have you any wool
Of course the answer is yes
They're sheep, that's a real silly question
Three bags full would be my guess
Hey diddle diddle, the cat and the fiddle
Didn't think cats could play an instrument
Though I've heard some play a viola
That'd be like me climbing trees, the equivalent
Jack be nimble, Jack be quick
At my age, you must be jazzing me
It's been a long time since I was nimble or quick
Was probably just a wee tike of three
Georgie Porgie pudding and pie
The current trend is over eating
No wonder obesity is rampant in the world
Bad habits our kids we've been teaching
Mary had a little lamb
She also had a goat
Mary's been messing with the animals again
Naughty Mary, I here do quote
© Jack Ellison 2015
Tribute to Tom:
HE’S NOT LOOKING SO GOOD FROM WAY UP HERE
I’d rather climb an oak with a squirrel —
Be one nut shy of death, a deferral
of climbing a ladder,
I think I would rather
NOT, but the husband says “Give it a whirl.”
GOLFING WITH GATERS
Golfing with gaters in Florida, Bob,
with them “partners,” is a serious job.
Look at them big teeth :o
Sell you mourning wreath?
You look deathly green, bank”rolled” by the mob.
HIS NOSE GROWS OUTSIDE THE BIT
In denial, his Pinocchio grows.
Has all the signs of sick, he’s in the throes.
He won’t admit it.
Won’t chomp, take the bit.
Fred’s horse, he coughs, snotty mask b’low his nose.
TIME TRAVEL RESISTS
Approval of pharisaical list.
A rambunctious year, time travel resists.
Secession for lovers
drawn under the covers —
Precious and few, hugs and kisses exist.
CURTAINS
Lathered with soap in dope eyes, he’s not seen
as death opens the curtain, her last scene.
He courts a sharp knife.
WAIT! That’s not his wife.
Behind him — his spouse; she wants to come clean.
8/6/2020
IT Sucks Poetry Contest
Kai Michael Neumann - Sponsor
*Since these are not official limericks by meter,
I’ve simply labeled them rhymes.