Long Ripper Poems
Long Ripper Poems. Below are the most popular long Ripper by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Ripper poems by poem length and keyword.
With years of mind numbing digging
Persistence pays off with time
I would almost call it a living
This life long search for the treasure of rhyme
Harder to track than the abominable snowman
Slippery than that monster in Loch Ness
More cunning than Jack the Ripper trailing a stripper
Is the hidden rhymes elusiveness
I've been from one end of the lobe to the other
In the deep dark recesses of the mind
Hoping to finally discover
Where it has hidden the pockets of rhyme
When I discover it I'll come back victorious
I will then share with poetry my find
The words that I use will be various
As I open to all the treasure of rhyme
would what that be junior? senior? sophomore?
since this brother in law rarely emails,
ye may scrunch countenance puzzled,
or on verge of emitting flatulence,
that if a ripper got let loose (by Jack),
would possibly find ja propelled,
thru Edgar Allan Poe's churchly
sepulchral tintinnabulation
(where for greater effect
yukon envision imagistic ravenous bats
in belfry resonating air,
or perhaps blasted back
to the House of the rising sun),
BUT...gnome hatter,
no win tent may starkly appear
explaining inexplicable reasonable rhyme,
why aye dash communique
minus virtual trumpeting blare
(sorry, but in the interest
of belated birthday cheer,
without computer generated imagery)
rendered hoop fully readable,
sans black and white Scottish matted pixels
constituting beloved appellation
unsure how to address ye perfectly clear
while sitting atop padded office chair,
pondering as already writ,
how to acknowledge thee, whither with dear...
meanwhile, this scribe experiences
comfortably numb derriere,
now scrambling, resorting, and toying
to fetch acceptable, catchy light hearted endear
mint, that seems tolerably acceptable
(of course) with flair
acutely perceptive, though NOT overboard with glare
ring obeisance, NOR USE ALL CAPS
TO SCREAM so ye kin hear
soap hull ease excuse this incurable
Harris scribe with thinning heir
yes...oye gevalt, infantile regression finds me
burrowed in Schwenksville, Pennsylvania lair
still emotionally inchoate, though grown a mere
speck within the flotsam and jetsam near
to boyhood Collegeville abode NOT saved by a prayer
re: home companion bachelor Norwegian farmer
replaced instead by vinyl city
all in the name of progress
which (once a pawn a time)
open farmland did dis app pear
so...a gam bulling gambit
to avoid moseying down Level Road...
may NOT seem *****
for insufferable sadness
with eyes bursting with many a tear...
(gulp) tis best to veer
away from topic uh viz er rated razed homestead,
and mainly wish ye another birth year!
adieu...from math tha hue
Although intoxicated within ethereal madness;
bound within the chains of this soulless prison.
I'm desperately in love with this Gothic sadness;
whilst staring into a fog of disheartened reason.
Walking and stalking through dark rancid streets;
stopping for pints, now the pain's finally receding.
Through smoke and crowds; reverent and discreet.
A bottle to the abyss, now heartless and bleeding.
Watch the frightened view my new lifeless prize;
found there in the dark of a White Chapel lane.
A gutter splashed in blood; wasted faceless lives;
I feel not of blame, nor absolved of pious shame.
A grave awaits all that tempt this pattered wraith
from the streets of lust, to the arches of festoon
stealing their souls whilst courting a devilish faith
I'm in love with blood of all devoid of a moon.
Muffled be the moans through all incised dreams;
Inhale a swirling mind while exhaling into hell.
Humming in rhyme of timed whispered screams.
Clock chimes bye, so off go I, leaving now as well.
1/28/2021
Murder In The Tunnel Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Kai Michael Neumann
Boundary rope trope it's the hope that kills
Fatality of the banality of all Bazball’s frills
Hilarity of baggie greens nationwide thrills
Beer swills spills hosts dreams full to the gills
Totality of the brutality still gives me the chills
Stokes not chipper has to swallow a bitter pill
Can't fallow our ripper skipper’s skill & iron will
Our leader will wallow in the shrill media mill
His men shi*ter…hollow can't follow Ben's drill
Callow not brill..of shallow Bazball had our fill
Hallow the Wizards of Oz are still top of the bill
The country alive cheering let's go in for the kill
Begin fearing the din of sneering & jeering 5 nil
Jack the Ripper has not mended his ways
Continuing search for unwary prey
This time around, his weapon is poison
Extinguishing lives of poor, his mission
‘The weak must perish’, Jack the Ripper says
Homeless vagrants at food bank, to God pray
Oblivious that blue skies have turned grey
Their food today, prepared by a demon
Jack the Ripper
Panic sets in as these weary souls sway
Each falls to the ground and there they do stay
Mass murder most foul, against God, treason
Yet the man who did it, not in prison
Criminal feels what he does is okay
Jack the Ripper
30-July-2021
Panic at the food bank poetry contest
Sponsor: Kai Michael Neumann
Visions Of Match Stick Girl
(“A Christmas Tale”)
New Year’s Eve came in the dark, on the cobbled stone street
On frigid snow and bitter cold, on the little shoeless, hatless girl
Visions of the match stick girl came through
Her name was Mary; lost like a little lamb in fog and ice
London has that effect on fragile things in England winters
She lost her parents too and oversized slippers there
The ones her mum once wore and gave to her with such care
Mother, father and slippers gone in an instance in the snow
Rolled over by two speeding carriages that killed them cold
She sells her match sticks by the River Ripper
Signs read, “No guns or knives permitted about the wharf”
Match girl does not fear for things she cannot read
But for her life and freezing on the New Year’s Eve
She sells only one match at a time
For a penny or a pence for what they’re worth
Poor girl has few customers along the river
As foul weather sets in and worsens
She stumbles sickly, stubs her toe on cobble stones
But still sings merrily against the folding snow
Not for contest
Based on Theme- The Little Match Girl by H.C. Andersen
“A Christmas Tale”
A bloke who hails
from New South Wales
will know of Gundagai.
Some guy found gold,
or so we're told,
in days now long gone by.
I grew up there
without a care
when both of us were nippers:
she was my mate -
her name was Kate -
I used to call her "Kipper".
We loved to lark
around Yarn Park,
and sing Frank Ifield songs,
play hide-and-seek
on Morley's Creek
all golden summer long.
I'd glance at Kip
(she fielded slip)
and try to hoist one high:
but quick as thought
she'd yell out, "Caught!"
or "Nice try, Gundagai!"
Her brain was quick,
her wit was slick,
and ready with a joke.
She'd bat and bowl
and kick field goals
as good as any bloke.
Well, time moved on.
Those days are gone,
and never to return.
I've roamed this earth,
for what it's worth,
and one thing I have learned.
In this wide world
there's heaps of girls,
and some of 'em are ripper,
and dark or fair,
I've had my share,
but none of 'em's like Kipper.
I'm not that grand
with pen in hand,
but I've written Kip a letter:
I may be wrong,
it's been so long.
She may not even get 'er.
So now you know
the way it goes.
You've heard my tale unfold.
I'm like those fools
with sieves and mules,
hell bent on striking gold.
I'm a chafing chook
on tenterhooks,
awaiting her reply.
I know my Kip -
she's sure to quip,
"Oh, nice try, Gundagai!"
Through the erotic alleyways
of dim set lamppost light,
smoky the figure struts on by
to catch the last bus of the night.
It's gone past eleven,
and it's down grim lucks drive,
but she'd've danced till dawn
swimming in any old dive-
Off goes the lady of liquor,
toes screeching to be a little quicker,
Her blisters cry to green sleeves
But she daren't try paddling in hazer's heap.
And she is in presence of charm
by tweens and men offering her arm.
They serenade her beauty in heckled praise:
"Your dead fit- give us a gob-job la"
and with a hickup she giggles,
and coyly flutters her stuck on eyes.
Oh the seductive sound of chavs zipper
that to her delight moonlight flicker
gives a hint to their gift like that of the ripper.
She passes by,
oh those gentle pricks of enticement-
the serenade fading to silence,
meeting her backed against the wall.
Nervous she presses her dress to her stomach,
blushing she takes her other hand
seductively pressing it on her lips and down her throat.
He grabs her wrist and thrusts his surprise toward it,
she bows her head in submission,
taking a firm grip-
she lurches and twists.
"There you go" she legs it.
She was young and naive, easy to deceive,
Delicate and faint, some what a saint.
Hungry for change, in some ways just strange,
Open for new, oh what that would do.
A sinister smile, met her one night.
Eger to feed his own appetite,
Eyes like hawk,
Physique of a snake,
Words whispered out, “Hi my name is Jake.”
The days she thought she was missing,
Blinded by all their ravishing kissing,
Passion had its fall,
When she realized there was no ball.
She should have lost both her slippers,
Since price charming, became Mr. Ripper.
Sometimes love pays a price,
When it was lust that made her initially enticed.
From the moment he seemed to ask her name,
She did not realized she entered a game,
All of this seemed exciting and new,
For a second, it was like a dream come true.
He continued to pursue her all through the late hours,
Even went and picked her some burgundy flowers.
Preparing her heart to accept his invite,
They had entered into the twilight.
The days she thought she was missing,
Blinded by all there ravishing kissing,
Passion had its fall,
When she realized there was no ball.
She should have lost both her slippers,
Since price charming, became Mr. Ripper,
Sometimes love pays a price,
When it was lust that made her initially enticed.
He asked her to dance under the crescent moon,
Then gently kissed her, and began to consume.
All of the breathe inside of her lips,
As he held tight to her lovely hips,
She gasped for air, but he didn’t stop,
When suddenly, there was a little pop
She fell to the ground,
With no one around,
He kissed her goodnight,
After his bite.
BY:
He cuts throats too, my dear friend Ramsay!
How can I sing myself to comfort,
Sing wonderfully, as my father brags,
With a cut throat!?
Perhaps the draining of my fluids shall be our killer's lullaby,
As he sleeps soundly with the soothing flow
Of my newly dead blood!
With an uncertain sigh,
I now stand alone, quaking!
Cruel thought imagining despairing fate
How could Ramsay have so much faith in a cowardly girl
When faith is simply what she lacks?
She is out to find an evil one unseen,
A twisted fiend that can be he that passes—or he!
Where shall she go from here?
Surely she cannot stand in this spot forever;
The rain has already chilled the coward to the bone,
When all she has on for warmth, the foolish child,
Is a thin old sweater?
But, ah, her bone is to be chilled once more,
And the weather, I'm afraid, will not be the cause. . .
-this is a dark soliloquy of a character in an unfinished play about Jack I wrote... maybe a couple years ago? I gottah put a date on these things! Haha-