Long Plug Poems
Long Plug Poems. Below are the most popular long Plug by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Plug poems by poem length and keyword.
Beyond the wave-sacked pebbles
lie the pockmarked dunes,
sea-wind swept heaps,
burrowed by the claws of scaly thrashers.
Here they huddle, the working class,
flogging grim pleasures,
wolfing eggy sandwiches,
dipping tea-stained teeth into beakers
as a chill summer drizzles on.
I am a brine-spattered small fry,
a boyhood caught in a swirl
and flounder, bare feet
skimming the slimy kelp, stalking
an ankle tugging surf.
Mother, her demeanor
soggy and sagging at last,
pleads to be led back
to the creaking camper.
Father smokes a plug of leathery shag,
grunts upright, walks toward the sea,
looks to see God knows what,
then turns to drag me away,
from our holiday day.
i have my bad habits
you accept them all
i have my imperfections
you see them as rare art
you smile at me as i put the last of the ornaments on the Christmas tree
i do not deserve you
the True Blessing for me is that you adamantly disagree
i made some bad decisions
you shrug your shoulders and say 'don't we all?'
i am not wise with my money
you smile at me as i put the Mom's Favorite Star on top of the Christmas Tree
i am not worthy of you
the True Blessing for me is that you passionately disagree
i am my own worst enemy
you open your arms and your heart to offer friendship
i am the president of the construction of my problems
your smile at me as i plug up the brand new lights radiantly beautifying the Christmas Tree
i do not have the potential to be anywhere near your esteemed presence
the True Blessing for me is that YOU WILL ALLWAYS FOREVER DISAGREE,
and i will humbly and sincerely Thank God for You until my time on this earth is done
Beyond the wave-sacked,
lie the pockmarked dunes, heaps dug
by the claws of scaly thrashers.
Here they huddle, my blood kin
flogging grim pleasures,
wolfing eggy sandwiches,
dipping tea-stained teeth into beakers.
By a shoaling shale and monochrome spray
one brine-splattered small fry.
A boyhood caught in a swirling freshet,
he whales barefoot in the flounder,
skimming the slimy kelp, stalking
a slippage of tugging surf.
Her demeanor soggy at last, mother
goads to be led to the creaking camper.
Father smokes a plug of leathery shag,
grunts upright, walks toward the sea.
A toppled thermos and leftovers
scooped up and lugged away.
Windswept, the lingerers
trudge from the chilly churn,
while a soused and hectoring bay
records a working-class holiday.
I don’t think I’ll ever see
a POTUS as stupid as Trump can be
Recently he had Iran on the ropes
Iran’s beleaguered citizenry flush with hope
Cheering a President who seemed to mean what he said
that he’d leave Iran’s oppressive government for dead
But he stopped abruptly, he pulled the plug
let Iran’s maniacal thugs out of the hole he’d dug
Why didn’t Trump finish what he’d started
As things stand now, he got out-smarted
For all his boasting and blither-blather
I imagine most everyone would rather
Not see him give the Ayatollah hundreds of billions in alms
with zero progress on nuclear arms
Or let Iran control the Hormuz straits in 60 days
when pre-Trump it was always a free international waterway
And at the G7 conference, he defended permitting Iran to keep her ballistic missiles
confounding America's generals and top-drawer military officials...
The ‘deal’ Trump's ‘negotiated’ lacks any reason
~ except as ‘Exhibit A’ for an indictment of treason
THE LIPS
Oh! what a world of sin I created?
Looking around humanities, I saw the beautiful lust in their heart towards me.
All big teeth, considered me important.
I cover the teeth nomatter how big it may be or the decay particles that hangs on;
Women painted me to lure men into destruction and say good bye to their senses.
With me in colours, men lose their heart for women;
Yes, once contacted me; contract is signed, feelings rains.
Without me, men will not have women's heart or look at their ugly but charmingly faces.
I make faces more beautiful;mostly when in colours. No face can shine without me.
Iam the spice of beauty; catch a glimspse of me, emotion, pleasure, feelings will smile back at you.
Iam the bridge of love, you can't destroy or ignore me; and still climb into full atmosphere of lust and deceptive.
The women knows my important in schooling men around;
plug-in into each other; is likes poles, my attraction is confusion.
Throw a finger across me, disagreement will be silent; and contract will be signed.
In my world of deceptive, decent life is a mirage.
I can make good, I can kill. rushing your mouth into me; risk of deceptive, pains and weeping is high.
Iam the sepulchre of souls, no matter how you painted me with colours,
I change not but many souls lust after my colours.
I appeared good to sinful eyes that would't let me be, wisdom of knowing my nature is total abstain from using me to kiss.
what do we kiss with or eat with?
Nomatter how worse is your nature, Lips, stay on my face.
and make my monring and bed time like rose -garden where faces forget their identity in God.
Until you stop painting me to achieve your evil desires, I will remain only tools of confusion in this world.
I will allow humanities to use me to break each other's heart.
Pastor Emmanuel .A.Brown
Oh, let us write of finer things
of stupid songs our leaders sing
perchance a word of climate’s rage
of private planes for traveling sage
or better yet the planets health
while stripping it of all its wealth
but nay, t’would seem a bit uncouth
we’re they to tell the friggin’ truth
for both the sun and moon abide
in lover’s quarrel o’er the tide
the bees are humming in their hives
while we plug in the cars we drive
If God had said “all men are equal”
I doubt that He’d enjoy this sequel
As both teams claim unyielding faith
they turn their backs on the homeless wraith
Unless, of course, there’s an I-phone near
And an edited clip that they can share
Why not stay home, stifle that shout
And in November…VOTE THEM OUT
this little mouse befuddles me
for it is her i set free
yet she won't let me be
returns back to me
at night i hear her chew and chew
such a mess always rude
not sure of what to do
if i catch her over again
and release her from the trap pen
will she find her way back in
leaving little gifts not of a friend
the house is like a rats nest
all from this little pest
and i weary from lack of rest
time for measures i detest
glue trap gets her stuck
my patience ends as her luck
why did you not run free
and leave my house and me
i plug the hole that let you in
and toss you into the trash can
white foam builds on the edge of the sand
slowly washing away our footprints
the clouds roll in thick and heavy like wool
the rain starts pouring
drowning the hearts we drew just moments before
the waves grow tall like mountains crawling on water
darkening, swirling thrashing, dense; thrashing and ripping through the beams of the boardwalk
all at once.
wind racing through my hair
leaves dancing at my feet
I turn around
empty.
there's no one
nothing.
not a soul.
not a breath.
not even mine.
my lungs burn.
my legs vibrate.
my throat throbbing.
visions blurring.
ears ringing.
there's not a single bit of air left in the world is there?
my hands tingle: traces of you still lingering
comforting me in the midst of the cold
I can smell your musk.
I can hear your heartbeat outside of your body.
its fast.
its angry.
every breath i take feels like eternal flames have replaced the oxygen around me.
your eyes are dark and heavy like lead.
mine dart back and forth searching for something.
anything.
some sort of comfort.
but I'm lost at sea point nemo.
lost in the journey between filling my lungs and finding my hands.
funny enough when I do, they're in yours
like a lightkeeper spotting a boat stray on the growling hungry water.
you see the paleness that stole my complexion like a poor thief;
the sweat pooling in my palms and my eyes draining like someone pulled the plug on life.
your calm.
goosebumps mesh with my clothes and the sun falls from behind the clouds.
the sky a gleaming blue.
the sand is warm like knitted blankets across my feet.
my stomach unties the boy scout knots it threw itself into.
my arms and your body like magnets
I don't understand but I was never looking for understanding.
I just wanted it to stop.
where'd the storm go?
the world was just crashing moments ago
yet you seemed to pick it all up and placed each piece as precisely as it was before.
maybe the only air left comes from your mouth leaving me colliding begging for more.
.
WHY MEN ARE CALLED GROOM AND WOMEN BRIDE
Hullabaloo and cacophony etched in your Union,
Soliloquies to break up with your said-protagonist of a spouse,
You forgot your beautiful euphony, word fusion
When the beginning of two you can't even denounce.
Six months will turn sixty years, hopefully,
Only if you refuse to pull off the plug.
Hope to reminisce your days in the solitary.
Scattered equations be fixed like a computer bug
Malfunctioning & calculating 2 plus 2 as three.
Why is the newly wedded Man called GROOM,
And the woman, full of mystery, called BRIDE?
Her chromosomes which is genetic info room
Is like a deep ocean even as you swim with the tide.
Wedding day was when you 'ere commissioned as GROOM
For the new task of a durational long learning passage.
Nobody calls her WIFE on wedding days but BRIDE,
Your Union overtime will birth it's own adage:
Man "grooms" his BRIDE to become the WIFE.
That's why Men are called "Bridegroom" when he's trending,
Grooming connotes patiently nurturing, teaching her to thrive,
Helping her become and carefully tending.
The altar is for two madly-in-love MATURED mates,
Patiently inclined to groom and to be groomed.
High expectations may automatically results to hate,
To become a WIFE she must be graciously groomed,
It doesn't mean one has the edge.
Before thinking separation, have you groomed her?
Give time for understanding, your universe will merge.
The HAND will need to be patient with the PUZZLE
Else a scattered piece, a show of tumbled King,
Broken Queen will surface, alongside dilapidated Castle.
She's to be your WIFE but still your BRIDE inspite the ring,
Just GROOM the BRIDE, don't painfully hustle
Cos your Union isn't a semantic struggle tussle
If only you follow Divine steps to avoid the hassle.
VickWizzy
Vick Manuel Poetry {VMP}
Copyright © 7th May, 2020.
THE WILD GOOSE CHASE*
I accidentally let one loose
did you see that thing vamoose?
It gave me the slip, did you see?
Now that thing is awfully free.
I walk on pins and needles, friend.
Trying to find, I twist and bend.
You ask why I pull up the rug,
why I pull out every plug.
I raise my hands over my head
and flip over each unmade bed.
I flip out, scratch, harrumph, grumble,
dash around corners, stumble.
At night I turn off all the lights,
sit in the corner, battle bites.
I listen for terrible sounds.
My eyes dart round and round and round.
Afraid of where that thing will land —
on the mountain or in the sand.
I feel empty of all this gas.
I miss the sound of golden brass
and the smog that liquifies eyes,
the way your ribbon twists and lies.
The putrefaction of butt —
the stinker where we blame the mutt!
7/11/2018
Messina’s I accidentally let one loose poetry contest
*Wild Goose chase - a wild or absurd search for something
To goose - to squeeze a butt cheek