Long Plunk Poems
Long Plunk Poems. Below are the most popular long Plunk by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Plunk poems by poem length and keyword.
predicated on verb hose noun sense
with brain matter makes me astute
and this union with the trappings
of virtual reality tub boot
would be akin to heaven
within the domain of this atheist - ole coot
whose purr add ventures scripting verse
sit aisle feeble rhyme with no reason
moost definitely hi yam not terse
aye speculate yar facial reaction
(understandably) would be
toe step from this purse
son i.e. Daff Punk Matthew Scott Harris
when ma time to ride luxuriously
in a plushly jeweled hearse
carrying thigh cremated ash
disagrees with me credo, ethos,
faith no more much less brash
since be yen entombed
in a coffin resistant to crash
vis a vis atoms either
forcibly split (divorced)
or tum marry in a shotgun flash
(fission or fusion respectively)
exhausts precious natural race horses
cruelly whipped
stinging fresh fielded gash
where putrescent hide of Equus resembles hash
sheesh, how in the of Judas Priest
did hie veer off into the least
common denominator,
which absolute value increased
the totally tubular confusion
into a worthless jumbled gobbledygook feast.
These are the ones that write themselves,
That write themselves in racks as black as ink
On pages whiter than the white of sterile pain;
Down boulevards of shadows, shallow lanes
And corridors and alleyways that hold the rain;
Across the universe of astral skies and solar plains
And continents of fields and fields of grain
Into the stories they have yet to tell, they write themselves –
They write themselves in meanings meant to be,
In earnest measures borne from sea to sea they're aching to be free;
Through eyes and hearts and souls that manifest their destiny
They reach and grow and live and breathe
For us to feel for us to see
The promise that they hold, the music that they sing,
And we are humbled by the song and by the wisdom that they bring
—-
And these, these are the hands that wield the pen that gives them life,
Whose fingers plunk the keys that spell the words
That write the stories on the canvas they are meant to tell –
And it is well, for they have learned from forests and from forest spells,
From hollow trees and barren wells and empty shells;
From midnight flights and midnight morns
They dare to be set free, as surely as do we,
Though we are shredded, we are torn
And the stories we have yet to bear are yet unborn
—-
These are the words that tell the lives that write themselves alive,
That rises to their image, rises high
As paintings painted with the colors of the wind will paint the sky –
And the stories they construct about themselves are ever borne
In formulas pre-scripted and pre-formed,
Created as a dancer forms the dance it wants to see itself perform –
And they are mighty, mighty as the redwood on its own
For now they have been written
For now they have been born –
Toss a pebble onto still waters
does it skip the surfaces
does it fly
or does it plunk deep into the recesses of the deep
Patience is the virtue of a weary soul
longevity begets wisdom through trail and error
Youth by nature is impatient
Pray for rain and receive a flood
does your cup runneth over
Bury your dreams and smother hope
Hate is easy and justifies self doubt
True love takes time and is earned
Honest labor works for the betterment of all
Time is everything
Time is nothing
If life goes in cycles
can it recycle too
The flat stone slides across the water's surface
with three great leaps and skips
Enjoyment in simple things allows happiness overall.
No antihistamine can
unblock the lifetime
accumulation of stoppered emotional gunk
zapping, undermining, and polluting *****
mine early life in retrospective avast flunk
stripped mined wasteland qua sinkhole,
where eternal reverberations soundlessly plunk
inescapable deafening, and
blinding this targeted
"scapegoat" bullied by most every punk
wrathful verbal sucker punches,
whereby yours truly habitually shrunk
within himself, yet self actualization
predates how severe
introvertedness doth debunk
the penultimate prevalence that mean kids,
albeit cruel, fiendish, incriminating
ganged accomplices further sunk
this then boy careering
into an abysmal funk
crashing into bajillion pieces
with soundless silent thunk
pitching mental health
(actually entire self)
analogous to comatose
state losing a chunk
of vital growing up years,
when upon reluctant
commencement into early adulthood
debilitating chafing
against self destructive
(mailer daemon) nemesis did brood
apathetic degree of functionality crude
delivering punishing perception,
now this older dude
writhes with lament oft times exude
ding self hatred, especially during
critical years, I denied myself food
never reconciling how affliction
cost development good
and plenti stunted development,
when scythe ying grim reaper donning
trademark black hood
dee metaphorically pinned toothpick
lovely bag of bones fragile as breadstick
easily crushed by madding publick
crowdsource, that slip of a cowlick
my excruciating body electric
demolished with figurative flick
of wrist now shutters hermetic
vacuum sealed "prison" brick
an invincible fortified bailiwick
walled in invisible steely fortress
hardest and most resilient mucous thick
against any wrecking ball.
Tuesday was the day that Saturn came crashing down out of the sky.
She fell with a plunk, many people thought they were going to die.
She got smaller and smaller, until she fell with a tiny little plink.
Saturn fell in my grandmother’s dark room, into her photogenic sink.
We grandkids asked Grams, should we share Saturn's plight?
Gram yelled. This is a dark room. Do not turn on that light!
Saturn spoke to us, using extraterrestrial telepathy.
She ate short bread cookies, and some of Grandma’s dandelion tea.
We kids do not keep secrets, so I guess you know bye and bye.
FBI came and began searching for Saturn. Grams said it was a lie.
Now two FBI agents are locked in basement – Pete and Old McSly.
Because Grams said if Mr. Lee turned on the light, he was gonna die.
Plunk plick plat splat
The drip of faucet compels me to
Throw down a few notes
Words I had not thought of six seconds before
Cardinals and sparrows
Twittering and chittering
I listen hard, capturing nothing
Yet inspired by everything.
My subconscious grabs these sounds
Work on them as I slumber
Astral travel my go-to-place
As my muse sings what she finds funny
We wake up suddenly
A helicopter of a mosquito
Dive bombs me
Urging me to write of my killing ways
I pick up a pen
Dashing down an inky path
in a notebook full of everything
and nothing, twisting me with crazy ideas
Shiny thoughts, dark ideas,
Whimsical dragons, laughing at my silliness
Leading me down paths with their plunks plicks plats and splats
It’s Super Bowl Sunday;
Get ready to party.
Have plenty to eat
And prepare to drink hearty.
It doesn’t much matter
If you are a fan.
Just turn the game on –
That’s the start of the plan.
Plunk down bowls of chips
And have very cold brews.
Keep track of the score
‘Cause one team’s gotta lose.
Be sure to stay put
When commercials are shown.
It’s fun to see ads
That cost more than you own.
Serve wings or thick heros
And keep the beer flowing.
By halftime the fervor
Should really be growing.
Replenish the food;
Add dessert to the mix,
And glance at the passes,
The runs and the kicks.
At last, when it’s over
You’ll check out the score,
Clean up all the crumbs
And the mess from the floor.
For on Super Bowl Sunday,
It’s time to regress,
And we all watch the game
Though some couldn’t care less!
Back to the jungle once again
A long journey has come to an end
Over the clouds, through the hills
and down the river I have came
Everything is a little different
But somewhat the same
Here lie a people that used to be slaves
It was on this river they made their escape
Here they built houses of wood and stone
And created a place they could call their own
They make their living off the land
By the work of many strong hands
They have built this vibrant community
That my eyes have been privileged to see
By a glance all I may see is poverty
By a closer look, I now see true beauty
And not merely the endless scenery
or the luscious foliage and greenery
But in the people I have come to serve
And in turn who I have let serve me
In ways it feels, I truly don’t deserve
So listen closely, let me tell you a story
Mothers and daughters down by the water
Beating laundry with paddles, the sun grows hotter
I approach with my boots covered in junk
I place them in the water with a soft plunk
I attempt to remove the thick red clay
she takes them from me and washes away
She scrubs until there is no sign
of any speck of dirt or grime
Thank you very much is all I can say
I now ponder would I do the same?
If the situation were reversed
Do I really believe the first will be last
And the last will be first?
Can I honestly say that I would choose
to take the grimy, muddy, dirty shoes
of a foreigner I hardly even know?
Would I humble and bring myself low?
In all honesty I really don’t know
But therein lies the true beauty,
I now see
Amidst what appears by a glance,
to be poverty
So don’t merely judge by what you see,
but believe
that beyond the poverty,
there may be
A true beauty, yet to be seen
We had most fun we have ever had on the River Boat Dell Queen
Cousins Limpets and the Hoppers, more than you've ever seen.
Frolicked, jet skied, threw our sisters and bros in the water.
What incredible fun for each grandson and granddaughter.
We have never seen you act this way, the littlest one said.
named Sheila, she belonged to Lilly Putin and son Ted.
We picked her up, swirled her and threw her in with a plunk.
Me too yelled a big cheese sandwich eater name of Big Thunk.
It was the craziest, most fun family reunion we had ever had
You can ask my most serious grand Uncle– Timothy Thad.
We were arrested, hauled away for our behavior that fine day.
Grandma said next time we won 't let those damned cops chase us away.
Blackberry Memoir
Blackberries, round and glossy,
Always invite me to return
To dusty country summer afternoons
When languid waves of mirages
Puddle into shimmering hiatus.
From the gently swaying hammock
I hear the rattle of berry pails
To see my grandmother, in her straw hat,
Smile an invitation - come with her
Into the wild blackberry patch.
Like garter snakes that hide in the thorny brambles
Tangled canes slither across the sandy path
No perfect rows only prickly trailing briars
That soar from the heart of the thicket
In arching limbs to touch on summer skies.
Like raven tresses the blackberry fruit glistens -
Capturing sweetness from the glowing sun -
Purple stained fingers release the ripeness
Then hear it plunk in the berry bucket -
Delicious as raindrops in a summer storm.
Warm evening settles in contented sighs
Watching moonlight creep through tangled vines
When juicy blackberry pie warm from the oven
Arrives on clear plates with salivating praise
Topped with ice cream dripping down the sides.
When autumn strips the jumbled canes
To lie barren beneath the winter sun
My grandmother’s blackberry jam journeys
In reveries of summer days to come
When simple berry picking untangles life.
8-2-22
Contest: Your Thoughts on Blackberries
Sponsor: Matt Caliri