Long Sinkers Poems
Long Sinkers Poems. Below are the most popular long Sinkers by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Sinkers poems by poem length and keyword.
Obsidian oscillated into lava
slid across syntactic streams
tumbled thick greenwood thickets
impenetrability an illusion wicked
shatter splinter sassy sinkers
Lord Ashtar himself lifted gnarled garbage
two big broken black bags to Source
split seconds of screaming searing sores
baby posture soak singular satin
Prophet Daniel’s prison-free prediction
Coloured lava languid loosen
yin-yang of yesteryear’s yarrows
as Watchfulness wed yearnings
no black bumblebees boomerang bombs
rainbow hands bell belly beckoning
Solar flares ignite twin hearts atoning
corona emissions spill splashing space
sodalite sprinkle sundrenched shores
kaleidoscope pupils please pulsing fate
Hearts purely placed on golden plate
Four eyes fathomed Guy Fawkes fickle
feuding onto a fervid foolproof floor
Stonehenge now sturdily steadily stood
sedating simple silent sleep suavely
accede alchemical ascensions
Missions matched mottoed moulded mountains
timelines merge in moss musical movement
Justice jump Jungian jurisdiction
Presence posy a present perfection
Dreams deliver dictums to Duet
Delicious domed desserts diffusing !
Boxed lures lay: belly-up, forlorn, caste off sinkers,
line-less, relics of peaceful bygone days. In vaudevillian
colors of corny-orange: their hooks rusty, their prongs
dulled in an unalluring huddle; the bait lies unused
their drawers lowered like fathers, they recall summer
days with their flies down fondly. The boxed lures lay
belly-up forlorn, caste offs: boat-less, rod-less reminders
upon rickety tables, these tabled reveries of mist and sun
conjoin in conjugal tension. Soon sold to gen-millennial
to: decorate walls, ghost grandparents, mind-meld the screen
dancers to the much missed external world. Where the
fish-belly white daughters and sons could sun with fathers
disconnected from the umbilical cord of the Protestant
work ethic. Box baited: belly-up, forlorn, these caste off sinkers
line-less amble past the detritus of peaceful bygone days
when seas and lakes and ponds provided food for the soul.
Published in the April 2015 issue of Eunoia Review
Ah, the con a tried and true dastardly, debased,
debacle to test the metal of man.
A contextual contrib to the categorization
for rat-ICK-al political fans.
Simply put, the contest is not for the faint of heart.
Testing the spine of the spineless
demi-gods of media-o-craSS-y against each other
often produces hilarious outcomes, balloons full of
hot air which rise, sinkers like submarines
A-bombs which ann-I-oH-late beating the literal
pants of of pre-despotic predators!
Ah, the con a tried and true dastardly, debased,
debacle to test the metal of man.
A confab of convicts crashing the party of humanity
for their own con-test, loot-seekers all.
Blue ribbon, hollow trophy-seeking, baby kissers.
Even the best of these deep thinkers seldom
produce products which do more
than a-GRAND-Ize themselves.
Hitler con-tested the right to breath of the non
Aryan races...now that's surely contestable?
Kings and demagogue contest the human rights
of man daily, throwing female babies out with the trash.
So in an effort to auto adjust this neolith-ICK behavior
I vote we go sans test!
*There are no spelling errors here
what you see is poetic license.
After being amply lathered
from head to toe, aye
ya eye ya eye ya eye, and without fail
(gluteus maximus unloads a dump,
as predictably happens
like clockwork orange
after washing off suds),
this nada so grand poo ba
drops ship capsizing sinkers
(hefty waste ballast
causing sea level to rise), this aint
"NOT FAKE" just ask Cap'n Bligh
sitting athwart the poop deck
i.e. christened "Porcelain Goddess"
well nar did die
after being privy seeing yours truly
exit the water closet did espy
a much relieved rearing ass a nine guy,
which also earned me,
the nick name "Rump,"
not evident, via friendly customary wave
conveyed expediting,
(viz nonverbally)
business cheekily dreck eliminated
eh, the formality establishment,
sans customary "hi"
whereupon without any waste I
sought to secure these
weather beaten lovely bones of mine
preparatory to a tidal wave,
thus refuge sought
behind (a replica),
sans Bridge over the River Kwai
after moving ma bowels, no lie,
which predictable tsunami
predicated on my
humungous substantial
rectal discharge well nigh
generating threatening
rip snorting currents
impossible mission e'en ex spurt semen to ply
especially, flush with panic (a bum er,
but mandatory duty) when lookout scout,
(an E Medic) didst spy
an immense wall of water, aye yai yai!
Jump out of bed for breakfast, the time is 3 am
Knock on Uncles window, have a quick cold feed with him
Gather up the rods and gear, sinkers floats and line
Looking up into the sky, cloudless and looks fine
A day like any other day, a boy goes out to fish
Uncle votes Corangamite, against the young blokes wish
Get there and the South wind blows, the long walk is for nought
Turn around and head back home, there will be no fish caught
Many times it went that way, six miles of soft sand track
If almost there the winds spring up, can only head on back
Can't count the times it happened, we liked to persevere
There is not much that you can do, pack up, get out of there
Then there are those other times, when all is good to go
Long hard walk was worth the while, when just a breath does blow
Stand out on the rocky shelf, the bait cast to the south
Then you must be patient, 'til it's taken in the mouth
Then set the hook and hang on tight, while you play the fish
They all fight in different ways, to keep out of the dish
Snapper are the prize we seek, big bump on the nose
But ocean Bream are valued too, that is the way it goes
The rocky ledge points to the South, big currents come from there
Bring in big fish that don't belong, because they live elsewhere
Even catch a Kingy, when the bait fish come in range
Or using cabbage for a bait, big Drummer for a change
Now I get the map out, check where we used to fish
Think of all the fun we had, and if I could make a wish
I'd take a visit to those younger days, naturally quite sprite
When a highlight of excitement, was to fish Corangamite
Where is this spot of many fish, you have the right to ask
In sight of many beaches, where the families may bask
A place in Southern New South Wales, where even surfers play
It is at St Georges Head, eastern point of old Wreck Bay
Dear ol' dad loved
the way our mom
made fried clams.
It stood to reason
that a deep fat fryer
would be the perfect
Christmas present for her.
He proudly placed it
under the sad, Charlie Brown, tree
he purchased for 3 bucks
two minutes before the lot closed,
on Christmas eve 1955.
The expression
of disappointment
on our mom's face,
evident to me
but masked for
my younger siblings,
made for one of my sadder
Christmas mornings.
Dear ol' dad, as usual,
was half-lit and clueless.
She died way too young.
He eventually used the pot
to melt lead for sinkers.
I never eat fried clams.
The wind burnt the chill of infant cheek angling for sinkers
unable in the lavender light of dusk to rise, the wind purrs.
A catfish, with finger long whiskers, thrashes in the dusk;
just landed by the hunter, a salt peter pounded writhing husk.
Lost in hunger's lust the fish hunter's fire dies without pain,
hooked by the wind's burn, chilled, the sink holes now blackened, drain.
The wind stills, no longer lithe; it lies, no longer owning, anything;
no longer moaning, not intoning, not even groaning.
Calm now lies angry in the hollow seeking its rebirth,
slipping round and round, it sorrows, wind winding the earth.
Covered in muck, dust, dirt and filth,
The rods were pulled from the shed,
Brought inside, through the kitchen,
And laid all over the bed.
And the tackle box was emptied of hooks and sinkers,
Old lures, old bobs, and line,
Then the esky got emptied of the last camping trip,
Of empty old bottles of wine.
All washed and dried with thick soapy water,
Then packed to wait for the day,
When we’d all get up early and, with our tent and our beds,
We’d simply just drive away.
And the day came along, we all left the house,
Released from the old ball and chain,
We went camping and fishing, up by the river,
In a torrential, cold steady pouring rain.
Snuggle down and cuddle up
For the nights are drawing in.
Listen! Worms are burrowing
Deep down to below the frost line
To the black damp
Sweet damp Kingdom of the earthworm.
Six feet under
In subterranean chambers,
These humble sinkers,
Tunnel to the hum and pulse
Of the seasons.
Dragging and pulling,
Loaming and ploughing
A mosh of decaying debris down
Beneath the overburden,
Into the clag and quiet crush
Of the dark soil.
Worms, the intestines of the earth
In endless toil turn the world
Over, and over, and over.
In the cosy of my blanket
I hug my cup of tea,
And I look out above and beyond me
Up to the autumnal skies.
A twilight of stars
Flung far across the deepening violet,
Twinkle old light.
I ponder the nebula -
Neighbouring planets with their own histories,
And stories of water.
What became of their worms?
Venus worms, Mars worms,
Jupiter and Saturn worms -
What fate awaits the Earth worms?
Our dormant earthworms
Sleeping cold tight,
Deep down, away from the light.
Earthworms coiled spherical
In their protective sheen of dew,
Patiently waiting springs anew.
That’s jake, said the dewdropper to the bluenose who snorted.
Mind your potatoes, said the wurp. He had had too much footjuice.
The bluenose held a gasper out to the dewdropper. Here.
Nozzled, the wurp stumbled behind the shed, heading toward the hole.
He’s gone to iron his shoelaces, said the bluenose in a haughty way.
Go chase yourself, said the dewdropper. Bring us back a couple of sinkers.
The upstage bluenose looked at him carefully. You’ll be here when I return?
Sure, said the dewdropper. I swear it on my manicle.
You guys want noodle juice too?
That would be nerts, the dewdropper said.
Oliver Twist came up to beg a sinker.
Sure, said the bluenose, feeling superior. You’ll be here when I get back?
Go chase yourself! Urged the dewdropper.
He gave him an icymit, so the bluenose turned toward the diner.
That was the berries, said Oliver Twist, settling on an old car chassis straggle buggy.
The dewdropper told him to scat.
“That’s a rhatz!” the kid yelled, and he ran off.
What kind of phonusbalonus were you feeding to the kid?
It was the wurp, back from his potty break.
That blue nose is bringing the law, dewdropper lied. Let’s book.
Tell it to Sweeny, said the wurp. I’m settled.
Let’s blouse before that bluenose gets back, dewdropper said to wurp.
Bank closed? Sure. Why not. They headed for the motel to appeal to the owner.