Long Run of the mill Poems
Long Run of the mill Poems. Below are the most popular long Run of the mill by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Run of the mill poems by poem length and keyword.
You think you're Godzilla
but you're just a Gorilla,
that's what happens when you've got gonorrhea,
my skin colours vanilla
my skills are killa and real
you're run of the mill, a fail
can't you tell you didn't do well,
that Kartel manure smell
of Kountry music don't sell,
a wannabe that wants to be on X Factor
in a field riding a wrecked tractor,
tracks that no mind will capture,
you're no rapper, a can't act actor and no rhyme writer
with poor rhyming from your core
the fact is you naturally bore,
getting done by amateurs
that means s**t for sure and below my stature,
take a step back and see the big picture,
there's no record label coming for your signature,
you should turn around and head for the door
and not turn this battle rap into a war,
snore, pass out snore music,
20 years and there's still no use for it,
your rhymes are insignificant
your average skill's no different
stop thinking you're magnificent
and realise you're just a hunt.
Yet you think you're good,
umm missing a nail or screw
let's face facts your music is poo,
can you not make a beat with flow?
Your music makes me sit in a seat depressed and low
through ignorance your skill's seen no grow,
so excuse my rant but your music is pants,
professional status, you've got no clucking chance.
You're so unlikely to upstage my quickly written
lickety split thermonuclear lit quick wit
with whatever you pick
to pull out your bag of tricks
because I'll make it unstick
quicker than thumbs can click through your music,
making videos in which you go on the phone,
cliche prone, stereotype replica
look at ya forever inferior,
making out you've golden interior,
but Postman Pat out delivers letters
and is better with more under the hat
you've empty space where your brain sat,
writing rubbish, getting fat,
one year in I'm getting published
you skank like a grandad with one wish
you long to be served a contract,
take note of the situation
you've been rhyming for a generation,
and you'll never be a sensation,
just a symbol of humiliation,
........ cus Rosko thinks he's the dogs bollocks,
while the rest of us just think he's bollocks.
That's all bossco, that's all I have to country cartel you.
Over and out, they call me Sue.
Wish I was one of those mucky mucks
Like the ones that are running the show
Could do as well as those guys up there
Though I'm simply a 'run of the mill' Joe
With power comes a lot of temptation
Like the deals they make under the table
They say that absolute power corrupts
That's not one of your Aesop's fables
Things can change when you reach the top
When greed rears its ugly head
It clouds a person's perspective on life
Most important, the greenback instead
Mucky mucks have big scads of cash
And reside in expensive abodes
Are they really happy, really content
Any more than us 'run of the mill' Joe's
Some may say yes and some may say no
They're just people like you and me
Souls who've wandered off course in life
They've forgotten the importance of 'we'
Wish I was one of those mucky mucks
Naw, on second thought maybe not
Much rather be happy than stinking wealthy
Content with what I've saved in a sock
© Jack Ellison 2012
Hierarchical paradigm of the Amish community
After reading the novel titled
Broken English by Paul L Gaus...
accentuating, exhibiting, incorporating...
the Amish, whose long history of farming
with horses and mules, dates back
to when horse-drawn plows
first used to break up the earth.
While some newer Amish farms
use tractor-drawn equipment,
many Amish farmers still prefer
to use horse-drawn implements.
Said sturdy and simple contrivance
sports prominent envious society
regarding yours truly,
who feels tethered to capitalist construct
gagging me with unremitting yoke.
Hence, I experienced being woke
at mine incompatibility
inured my entire life
to the abstract codas, credo, dogma,
ethos, karma, mores, precepts...
constituting western civilization.
How quaint to bare witness, where townsfolk
congregate to resolve community conflicts
suspicious should an hyperconscious,
and pugnacious "English" poke
their figurative noses
where they don't belong kinsfolk
of sect who sell dried tobacco
foodstuffs, crafts evoke
hankering (regarding yours truly,
a run of the mill doubting Thomas)
to become linkedin
with a voluntary community
less restrive than
the so called "plain" people,
unencumbered with materialistic trappings
whereby assignments delineated
governed jump-started
by age and gender at birth
men assigned physical tasks,
while women linkedin to domestic role,
members of the sect
know their role from cradle to grave.
Aside from delineating
responsibilities predicated
on whether an individual
child, teen, or adult,
their culture allows,
enables and provides
self reliant lifelong skill sets
whipping a proud member into
topnotch shape of body, mind and spirit.
Concerto D'amor
Whenever I'm with you,
Other things are amnesia.
Every single moment with you,
Suits decades in a catatonia.
If you were Bermuda triangle,
I'd often tread on the blast of shangri-la;
A picnic in the devil's triangle,
Run-of-the-mill than millenniums in ball park.
You're the Bermuda triangle.
I, being a wanderer.
The strong storm of South-America pulling me to you,
And down towards your smile I totter.
If you were an Iceberg,
I'd pull my Titanic towards you,
Rejoicing as you break me apart
Waters drowning the consciousness I'd built.
You're the iceberg;
Sybaritic, pudgy and turbingly symmetrical.
And I lost in the lust of the traverse,
With my patois feels your viscera.
Be whatever you choose:
A stark lasso repressing the rim of the sea?
But by bid can you loose,
Letting your waves gulp my plenary?
My heart through its mouth bleeds yearning,
Of how often for you I did fall.
Christ on a horse! I'm crazy 'bout you, honey!
This is my seven lives concerto d'amor.
19:05:01:16:48
Ancestor. Ancestral Pen. Ancestral piece. Concerto D'amor.
A broad vale next to Lake Champlain,
early morning, before the heat,
barbed wire fence next to a field
where John Arnold’s sheep are grazing.
Tall grass is hiding most of them,
white humps moseying about there,
their heads poke up as there chewing.
Arnold’s House is there on my right,
old Victorian, last century,
nice place, but a little faded,
John has put off fixing it up,
wool prices were not great last year.
I’m not sure I want him to paint,
kinda fits in better this way.
A foothill juts out the next stretch,
small cliffs rise up above the road,
soft, crumbly rock interrupted
by tenacious trees with clinging roots
casting shadows over the pavement.
Way up high is an overlook,
local trail, popular day hike,
been up there a half-dozen times,
looks west to the Adirondacks,
across the long, thin stretch of lake.
It’s too hot to hike it today,
better in leaf season anyhow.
Stock car race-track on my left,
they run Friday and Saturday,
big white trailers are pulling in,
tonight’s competitors arriving,
it’s too early for spectators.
Fun watching them spin rubber through dirt,
and the local children love it,
I guess the fathers do as well,
or maybe the hots dogs and beer.
The beer is cheap, run-of-the-mill,
but those hot gods are really good.
I wonder where they’re buying them?
Two-mile mark, a broad wetland,
marshy ground, cattails and beaver dams,
tall grasses poking form water,
a swarm of annoying insects,
attracts dozens of pleasant birds,
each marked with their own fine color.
People fish here in the summer,
like to hunt ducks in the autumn.
Easy to imagine nothing’s changed,
that it’s just like primeval days,
but a collapsed barn in the woods
tells the truth of its history,
That this was once a farmer’s field,
it only became a swamp when
the beavers were reintroduced,
probably fifty years back now.
Nature likes to remake itself.
Well, my legs are starting to hurt,
time to start heading back now.
As a child I went surfing at Freshwater Beach in Sydney
Renowned for its great waves,
Swell waves for body surfing.
Beyond the breakers, furthest out, were the 'Heroes'
Old, leathery tanned surfers who waited hours and hours for 'the wave of the day'
They only caught a handful of the biggest waves every hour or two.
They spent hours lolling about beyond the break, waiting for the big one to leer up on the horizon
Too proud to catch the small stuff, the run of the mill waves not fit for 'heroes'
It was scary at first for a kid to venture that far out into the 'heroes' realm
They leered back throwing daggers and sighs with disapproving glances
But you could survive by giving them plenty of space, to avoid interfering with their rare big wave catch
The challenge was to 'show them up' by surfing down the waves they just missed,
Or staying on the wave for longer than they did.
To earn mere morsels or crumbs of reluctant respect.
They had a nasty way of ridding the blow-in boogie-boarders from their patch
They would duck down as flippered boogie-boarder passed overhead
But leave an arm and hand up
To grab the boogie boarder as it passed, dipping the nose in
Flipping the board and rider over in a somersault
This shooed the boogie-boarders away from
The 'Heroes' patch of sea just beyond the breakers.
Wolf Works
Not your run of the mill wolf, my fur is shiny silver
My left legs are stronger than the other two
Every day it is a struggle to prove my place
In the wolf pack pecking order
I am the center level in the group
Fever in my mind, in my blood, I strive
Salivate to compete, positioning to be number one
The lower and upper members of my pack
Attack my good legs to keep me down
On the hunt I jump just like a crab, sideways, then pounce
I know, crabs don’t jump but you get the picture
Licking my chops, tongue hanging like a liver, panting
Ice cold breath arresting the bloodied moment
As my teeth sink in the captured prey
Left legs did me well as I devour the premium parts
My partners stare at me and pace
I guess they are saying grace
If they take one step closer
I will put them in their place
Am I just one of a very rare few
That feels this love of love
Is it my age why I'm feeling this way
Don't feel I need a shove
Comes very natural to this old guy
As with the younger souls
Nothing special just run of the mill
Love is part of my whole
Thought that's how it'd always remain
The way the world should be
But men seem to have this penchant
For countries to disagree
Maybe us humans will get back on track
And live our lives as one
Instead of always fighting each other
Forever keeping peace on the run
Am I just one of a very rare few
That feels this love of love
Is it my age why I'm feeling this way
Don't feel I need a shove
© Jack Ellison 2013
I crown the missus "champ impractical joker"
Unbeknownst the wife appeared unusually upbeat,
she did pretend and succeed
to give yours truly a special treat
aforementioned item alluded to purchased
at Liberty Ministry thrift store
3841 Ridge Pike
(some miles further east
same road identified as Main Street)
Collegeville, Pennsylvania 19426
I can show you proof courtesy
printed information on pocketed receipt.
Most times one garden variety generic bloke
(christened Matthew Scott Harris),
would with pursed lips think
and or mouth the words okey doke
what in the name of Judas Priest
by George, he a run of the mill
on the floss ordinary heavy mettle folk
doth thee spouse got up her (figurative) sleeve
thespian wannabe she never quite...
her constitute stardom quite a joke.
She practices April's fool day
(hoping nobody notices
as she looks askance)
every time she gets a chance
gleefully clapping her hands
while performing an impromptu (risque) dance,
when she pulls off
hat tricks of her trade
taking Europe in general and France
in particular by storm
madding crowds clamoring to prance
with said unsung hero.
The words mentioned above intended for you
dear anonymous reader to woo
allowing, enabling, and providing how I view
livingsocial linkedin with good n plenti true
without a shadow of doubt poetic license taken,
these words zealously, randomly, haphazardly
scattered across screen willy nilly I spew
trying to coerce coalescence of continuity
yet additionally trying to weave events
earlier today December 22nd, I review,
whereby yours truly while waiting in a queue
assorted merchandise fifty percent off
the spouse did avidly pursue
unbeknownst she would play a prank and outdo
pulling a doozy gag at my expense, he took netview
of utter tomfoolery, and readily admits Matthew
Scott Harris I nearly ate "faux chocolate soap"
finding wife in stitches, he too
did chuckle, cuz he knew
supposed treat smelled extremely fragrant
cocoa confection fortunately, I did not chew
but promptly spit out after sneezing atchew!
Ah... how envious, those young, restless, and fecund...
Lucky young guys and gals
admission courtesy yours
truly finds small (medium)
poetaster at large rubicund
perhaps anonymous reader
lollygagging (cyber space)
while away leisure stunned
boot why such shock despite
old & decrepit peppy gunned
no longer doth comb when
god ole temptation beckoned.
Peak procreative years (mine) 4 foo
fighting excellent seamen amidst goo
(albeit sticky) nevertheless, envious
(guess) no matter libido truly extinct
flagellum equipped motile squirming
microscopic male reproductive cell.
Yes... inexplicable to yours truly why
upon waning hours of April seventh I
a run of the Mill (on the Floss) mellow
solitary, ja Democratic trumpeting guy
(donned with predilection to reflect his
nonestablishmentarian 20/ 20 hindsight)
every now and again prompted well nigh
ruminate, notate, incorporate...by and by
to experience fatherhood at least once
again though not a parent I feel gun shy
especially mine eyes seen glory... when
these out of sight myopic left and right
brown (not tubby cornea er anything)
aye shudder to think "camera-type eye"
cannot envision day of reckoning when...
hate making (figurative) spectacle (wry
ming poems impossible mission without
ability to see, but near future visualizes
optimism exaltant mood blind as bat cry
tears of joy (re:) gaining ability to delight
to sit and/or stand watching fresh paint dry
favorite pastime as coronavirus also known
(COVID-19) nifty and groovy innocuous eh
handy handy acronym establishing quite dye
hoe mite reputation when good times run dry
whetting appetite of ginned up entrepreneurs
meanwhile mayhem across globe goes awry
as medical practitioners nsync with scientists
pool their knowledge amidst race against time
aware every bloody seconds spells do or die,
puzzlement prevails felled others squeak by
with razor thin prognostication, not succumb
make miraculous recovery in a blink on the fly
instantaneous become asymptomatic odds defy
punishing fate inducing atheists beckoning sky
beseeching cosmic force allowing, enabling,
+ providing free and easy breathing of alveoli.