Long Plunked Poems
Long Plunked Poems. Below are the most popular long Plunked by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Plunked poems by poem length and keyword.
I rarely pay for things in cash,
Although some stores prefer it.
They charge more for a credit card,
So customers deter it.
But at the local bagel shop,
I placed my morning order
And realized that, when tallied,
I’d be somehow short a quarter.
I asked the counterman to please
Remove one single bagel,
To prove I wasn’t out to,
By some method, well, finagle.
He smiled and said, ‘You’ll bring to me
The quarter when you’re able,”
Not wanting to deprive me of
A bagel at my table.
I walked back home and quickly grabbed
A quarter from the pile
And at the shop, I plunked it down,
Which earned a startled smile.
The whole exchange reminded me
Of childhood; before supper,
To hit the grocer’s for some bread,
I was the picker-upper.
I carried change and worried that
I might be short some money.
The fact it happened now, not then,
Is really kind of funny.
There's one who acts like a righteous queen
Prattling peacock, she loves to pose and preen
She is surly and gruff
Heckling slurs with a huff
And denouncing the life-saving vaccine
The haughty queen is quite aloof
and sometimes she acts like a goof
Should she be on trial
For covid denial
Believe me, I’ve seen lots of proof
She's favored by one, her Prince Demonic
He bows to her highness, Queen Sardonic
Praising her fortitude
Conspiring to collude
Feeding her compliments that are moronic
Her majesty thinks she was perfect at birth
Pompously aggrandizing her self worth
It's tritely ironic
Her hubris is chronic
She's filled with bitterness but little mirth
Prince Dom is seeking attention
Pining for the Queen’s affection
Their words are debunked
They both have been plunked
So much for the Queen’s perfection
The old Queen stood tall and haughty,
Gawking at me, judging me naughty.
Expected me to bow
And she called me a sow,
I refused, calling her throne a potty.
Anonymous PS poet
Our soups matriarch, started an almighty feud
By decreeing she's perfect, the queen of her brood
This flawless diamond
Reigns on Shutter Island
Even insane Leonardo's, pleading to be moved
Another anonymous ps poet
The queen poses behind a shadowy façade
Thinking she is perfect before Almighty God
Disgusting as a wicked witch
Cannot locate a worthy niche
Here among good poetry mortals of the sod.
Yet another anonymous ps poet
Jan Allison and Mark Koplin have joined me in this limerick collaboration. We're not telling who wrote which verse, but you're welcome to guess.
If anyone wishes to join in this collaboration, please send me your addition through soup mail.
My mother counted meatballs
As she plunked them in the pot.
When I exercise, I count each rep
So I know what is what.
We’ve been told to count our blessings
And, of course, to count the change.
Counting sheep to an insomniac
Would surely not seem strange.
A dieter counts calories.
(For that, please count me out.)
A KO’d boxer hears the count
And knows he’s lost, no doubt.
A countdown at a launch pad
Lets us know that blast off’s near
And the thought that counts reminds us
What we want might not appear.
If you’re counting on an ending
To this little counting spree
Then don’t worry since you know that you
Can always count on me.
HAPPY THANKSIVING TO ALL AMERICANS OUT THERE.
Cluck put-purr kee kee went the turkeys in the back of Jim's truck. He was delivering them to neighboring vicinities for Thanksgiving. When he reached Tom's house he yellared "Turkeys for sale!" Tom had a peek, "How much do you want for the plump one?" and that is when the trouble began.
Claudie loves pets so when granny said "Tom go fetch the turkey (wink wink ) the turkey got loud and started running in circles. Claudy the grandaughter led him to a room and dressed him up in clothes. "Meet Gumbo, " she said proudly. He strutted round the kitchen with a cluck put-pur kee kee
Now, he thought he was family. "Tom take the turkey out and give him a good talkin'(wink wink)" What else could he do. He plunked the turkey in the back of his pick up truck and drove away. Claudie stood at the window crying. The last thing she heard was "cluck put-purr kee kee." as the truck drove away, the clucking faded out.
Tom sat on a rock with an unfired rifle in his hands. "Gumbo
was reciting Grace in a mumbo jumbo kind of way but it was
obvious even to a Hillbilly man that this turkey was
brainy and smart. "So your a Canadian heh!" he said to the
strutting anxious turkey. "Oka. Let's go home. Never mind.
We will eat an opossum instead"
Christy did not know how she was going to fix the problem.
Her sister Carol, had confided in her.
Christy knew she could not let Carol return out of state with her abusive husband.
The abuser was glaring at her when Christy came into the living room.
“Where is Carol?” he demanded. He was impatient to get going.
On automatic pilot, Christy said “DAD!”
Her father was lying on the floor watching TV
DAD!
He looked at her this time.
“Steve has been beating Carol.”
Without a word the sisters’ father got up off the floor.
Walked to Steve, spun him, and walked him out the door.
He had a hold of his neck.
He put his other hand on his waistband and plunked him over the porch railing.
It was about a fourteen foot drop.
Without another word Dad returned to his place on the floor.
Today, I climbed a high mountain.
Mountain where I shout my disapproval.
Disapproval of today’s social illnesses.
Illnesses shattering the life on earth.
Earth, our valuable mother.
Our kind mother’s mind’s unhappy today.
Today, days are red and prickly to dismay.
No walks but talks of wounds and worries.
Worries symbolizing contemporary sorrows.
Sorrows as the sun’s been sent off brightness.
Blazing conflicts for misery with societal evils.
Evils of acute and endless sticking on power.
Power of killing your people and feeling a doer.
Happy becoming the almighty guide.
For polygamy and alcohol abuse push wide.
Here and there dangle abuse and corruption.
Corruption and police harassment in evolution.
Harassment causing animosity and nausea.
Disorder, anarchy and negligence for criteria.
In media, tribalism and phobia en vogue.
Tribalism and ostracism feeding conflicts.
Wars predicting our fateful future in shifts.
The future’s now plunked in deep black darkness,
Slaughtering hope and causing death in a mess.
Death buries us all, and evil’s no more comedy.
Poem by Mugisho N Theophile
A tiny fish in a polluted pond struggled to breathe.
She is suddenly scooped up with a batch of the stinky water.
It is poured off her, and she is plunked into a fresh water tank
With her friends, and plenty of sweet air, tunnels, bridges, and ferns.
She is amazed and excited; her prayers were answered.
Feeling badly for the rest of her family, all of whom are dying a stifling
Death in a pond that once was full of fresh cool spring water.
A pond that has been a dumping ground for a factory without
A conscious. The tiny fish begins making new friends,
Optimism revived, excited to live, knowing her parents will
Be thrilled for her also. Realizing how wonderful breathing is again.
It happened back in time, quite a long way,
Back in the day, as they today like to say:
An era when most donations to yeshivas** **Rabbinical academies, often
Didn't require much of a man's pay-- with a preparatory high school
$18, $36, $54 at the most--
If you gave $100, you could really boast...
Annual banquets were different, however,
Promotions for them being quite clever,
Promising 'Full-Page Ads,' 'Silver-Page' and even 'Gold,"
All for a relative pittance, truth be told:
For a $180, $250 or $360 fee
Your good name would be trumpeted constantly,
With great pomp, dignity and high pedigree.
As 'a mere teacher in a yeshiva,' my own ads
Were quite modest: $50 for a quarter-page,
To pen something brief, but sage
About the yeshiva I toiled for out of love, not a wage.
So one year, quite way back in the day,
Imagine my surprise, my happiness, my elation,
Then my CONCERN and my SHOCK!...
...When browsing the banquet adbook journal ad hoc,
Just to see if anyone had penned a kind word about me,
I came upon THREE ADS, "Thanking Mr. Wolf," all paid for in Gold,
For over a thousand dollars! they had been ANONYMOUSLY sold.
The blood drained from my face; I felt faint and quite dizzy.
The room swam in circles, my nerves on edge, in a tizzy.
I looked around in amazement; who might have done it?
I spotted the adbook's creater, the man who had run it.
"Far be it from me to reveal the secret," he intoned.
'I don't deserve such a great honor,' I felt in my bones.
In the days to come, I asked everyone in town,
Yet no one would admit that he had plunked down
$1,080 to sing my praises to the world of the yeshiva,
To pay tribute to me like some big star or great diva.
So I had to give up my crusade as 'Super-Sleuth,'
Had to graciously acknowledge what seemed to be the truth,
That the anonymous parents of one of my students
Had been sincerely thankful that I was teaching their youth.
Mutter mutter mutter. Gutter gutter doo.
Cutter cutter cutter Hutter hutter boo.
Ebony sat staring, could not look away.
Twas a yearly event on Halloween day.
Witch T snorted and cackled and laughed as she dunked.
Stew splashed out as apple heavily landed in totally well plunked.
My best brew ever she bragged with a wink and a whistle.
She tossed in kerosene, fingernails, goat’s milk and a thistle.
Ebony sat mesmerized, watching her friend, the witch.
She moved not a centimeter. Her tail barely gave a twitch.
Witch T threw in mushrooms, the poisonous kind.
Knowing whoever found it would consider it a terrific find.
And now for my sister, she said with a snarl and a laugh.
In went an elongated head of a quite dead giraffe.
A bag of marshmallows and two cups of rancid puppy chow.
She could not stop dancing or adding stupid stuff now.
In the 40's I was black, not even shiny.
And so were my mother, father, and cousins.
In the 60's I came out in all kinds of pastels.
Soft pink, sky blue, sea foam green,
I was a new shape too; streamlined.
Some called me names and laughed.
I did not mind because everyone fought over me.
The second they heard my ring they'd be shouting
and running toward me.
I had spittle on me most of the time, it made me feel loved.
My great great great great grandchildren are not as lucky as I.
I heard so many voices - high ones, low ones, happy ones, sad ones.
My grands only hear one voice; just one.
Their tails have been eliminated.
They are not prominently displayed.
They don't have the pride we did.
Sure some have fancy covers, but
They are not part of the family.
My great great great great grandson is sometimes worn in a pocket all day long,
never taken out.
My great great great great granddaughter gets plunked into a woman's bra
on a daily basis.
In a bra!
And they only hear one voice.
They are not part of a family.
No one fights over them.
No one yells, "I'll get it!"
I'll get it used to surge through me like warm butter.
It was a love call.
None of them have curves or dials they are proud of.
My great great great great niece was stolen.
You heard me right.
Stolen!
Her brain was removed, curtains for her.
No one could have stolen me.
The whole family would have fought them.
Even if they hadn't,
I was hooked in.
I was loved.