Long Puffin Poems
Long Puffin Poems. Below are the most popular long Puffin by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Puffin poems by poem length and keyword.
Crow (Blackus Menacingus)
large, clever and a scavenger
found in gardens where there’s trees
good at puzzles, can be trained
likes TV shows about celebrities
Blackbird (Blackus Not-A-Pirateus)
common gardeners friend is he
perched on the handle of a spade
looking out for bugs and worms
went on a holiday to Adelaide
Thrush (Not-The-Itchyus Sortus)
light brown plumage with spotted front
easily identifiable medium bird
known for a complex, tuneful song
makes jam tarts with lemon curd
Starling (Impressiveus In-A-Large-Flockus)
iridescent all year bird
feathers change colour in the sun
swarms in huge numbers then
off to the pub for rowdy fun
Wren (Smallus Sticky-Uppy-Tailus)
one of the tiniest garden birds
surprisingly loud and piercing voice
small, round body, quick and gone
to play boardgames and other toys
Puffin (Brightus Beakus)
black and white with colourful bill
dives the water for its food
coastal, cliffside, craggy nest
sends birthday cards that are very rude
A band of comrades rather strange I think you will agree
This oddball bunch together shared a commonality…
The panda didn’t pander to the niceties of style
He wore his usual coat which he had done for quite some while
The zebra was a Libra with an eye for what’s in fashion
She loved the skin she’s swaddled in and flaunted it with passion
The badger was a cadger but he didn’t want your suit
He’ll cadge your lunch but he’s content with being so hirsute
The puffin felt like nuffin with his massive beaky nose
But still he kept his chin up for he rather liked his clothes
The magpie wouldn’t lie although he was prepared to steal
His virtues might be fake but his apparel very real
The Penguin was depending on a chance to show his class
His haute couture was something that was absolute top brass
The skunk just stunk, not all the time, but when occasion rose
His looks were good but he was quite offensive to the nose
The orca wasn’t happy to be so far from the sea
Though he was quite a corker in his shiny livery…
So when they met the parrot they tried not to put him down
But one of them just had to say… “Did you come as a clown?”
What am I doing here when there is no one to care, what I am doing here when you are all alone sitting over there. The days feel longer, the nights are very short and passion is locked up in the dark.
I pace back and forth on the floor searching for answers and looking for something beyond the shore but the road in front of me gets wider the hills gets higher and sweat is oozing out of my flesh.
I have this spirit of hope burning inside me and my guiding angels are walking in front of me, they are everywhere protecting me from the heat and the cold and always telling me to be bold. I have no time to dance with your wind, when you have committed a promiscuous sin; day in day out I live in the mud wondering when I will return to normal living again.
What am I doing here when your negative vibration saturates the town draining my positive energy and leading me towards an unfilled destiny?
It is painful and sad and it makes my heart rumble. And somewhere in the town the bad men are running around rubbing marijuana in the palm of their hand and puffin the smoke in the air.
What am I doing here when the unemployment figures are touching the sky and the youth are running up and down the street disrupting my heartbeat?
I lost myself in work so as not to focus on the dirt but at the end of the month, the cycle ends and a new episode begins again. I have talents and skills to tell you how the universe begins.
I have traveled to many places and mingled with many races, I have trod the earth without shoes and I have the story for the evening news, what am doing here when I have so much to share, the temple is on fire and I am filled with desire.
A new day appears with shadows flying in the air, I kept looking for the answer that is tied up somewhere in the forbidden chapter. I glanced at hope for a while with passion riding by my side and I was determined to break through the web that glued me to the bed.
With courage we marched on top of hill looking for the man in the cloud. We found him on the floor with a group of people around him preparing the final draft to make a brand-new start.
What am I doing here when you act as if you don’t care? I will be leaving here soon and I will give you a call at noon. What am I doing here!
Saint Govan’s Chapel
They stood with their raincoats and rubber boots at the top of the cliff
Clothed in anger and fear they braced the elements and honoured the Saint
A hermit had lived in a fissure hewn into rocks by the tides and corrosion
The Chapel had been a later addition to weather storms for silent prayer
Souls stuck on survive they had arrived at the abyss to halt their demise
Hearts on surrender they threw caution to the wind for one final shout
‘Maybe the dolphins will offer a ride or the seagulls will take us higher’
Into clouds of salvation where their minds had failed to deliver release
He picked wild flowers and arranged a crown on her sunken head
Yellow Poppies for Peace and Wild Garlic to fend off their demons
Caressed the breeze in her hair embraced her Puffin tattoo and
Sank into her bell feathered arms seduced by kindness and hope
Raindrops fell like pearlescent seashells from a rainbow while rosaries’
Ocean spray tickled their weather worn skins and covered their sadness
Wind brushed away urchins of cobwebs and urged them to proceed
Sun rays reflected the moon as they enlightened their shadows’ horizon
Stripped to the core and essence they unlaced gloom and their burdens
Stepped forward in time and let nature answer echoes of happiness
Before they knew it stark naked bodies mingled under moons’ canopy
As they spooned their fortunes together and went deep inside joy
They felt younger by the minute and recalled the ancient wisdom that
A healthy body resides in a sound mind and rekindled passion and life
Soon they would not hear the sound of waves but felt the earth move
To rhymes rhythm and metre holier than holy and discarded insanity
Tongues licked the salt of the earth kissed cradled abandoned restraint
And tied a union made in heaven transported into ravines of rapture
The gods blushed a bit but looked kindly onto the feast of delight
No one demanded that life must be prudish when beauty unveils
06th June 2019
I came home the other day and my Ole lady wuz like..I thought you was getting ah maserati,i'm not riding in that. I replied, I went to my buddy's carlot and he said he don't get those maserati cars too often..anyways my mechanic of some 30 years said he ain't too sure he knows how to work on a maserati car with that Ferrari engine in it.so my Ole lady mouth all stuck out still huffin and puffin she say you had me all ah glow-cruise to my friends and show-off that is,we may as well drive to the local farm and pick up some ducks in this Ole pick up truck.I
replied back in the day this ride would have been okay..come now let's not fight you know whut my credit is like don't worry honey sooner or later and down the road and not too far umma go to my buddy's carlot and git that maserati car.
One may see puffins and parrots
any hour of the week
both birds bear a big colourful beak
the former pelagic feed on fish
and live in large colonies on coastal cliffs
tho' monogamous collectively breed as a bunch
but with renown as the Atlantic sea clown
in Iceland several are served as lunch
the latter arboreal primarily frugivorous
toco being by far the largest
are opportunistic and occasionally omnivorous
to a few prudes it may seem unseemly or rude
and yet if they stick around they'll later get down
as their chicks are seen to hatch in the nude
these avians may fly high in the sky
have the same such things as two wings and legs
and of each species the female lays eggs
but that's where similarity does stop
one puffin can do more than toucan do
in more or less of a day
after mating its pecker turns grey
and without waiting its bill it will drop
My child has a love of poetry
It is rare, for she is only nine.
In her bare mind, words are potpourri
floating, rhyming by stanza, by line.
Holding a book ever so tightly
(it relieves the raw ache in her chest),
my sweet Emma floats almost nightly
carried by puffins in a bird nest.
She paints her pictures lying in bed
dreaming up puffin activities.
Writing what's in the front of her head,
one of her common proclivities.
Her situation stems from asthma
of pet hair and seasonal rebirth.
She fancies ease from the miasma,
high above noxious coughing on earth.
Starting with nursery rhymes at three
we have read Silverstein and Dahl
both of us memorize easily.
Her choice today is Lewis Carroll.
My Emma lives in her Wonderland
especially with a nebulizer.
Her teachers all seem to understand
it's “down to earth” math that defies her.
August 23, 2021
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