Long Slugging Poems
Long Slugging Poems. Below are the most popular long Slugging by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Slugging poems by poem length and keyword.
Operation Barbarossa
the panzers start to roll,
Breaking out from Poland’s Baltic,
towards Sevastopol,
Ten million soldiers strong,
go goose-stepping east,
The Fuhrer’s Wehrmacht,
alongside his waffen SS elite.
No margin for error,
nazi Germany’s biggest gamble,
Get this wrong, and under
the red army might get trampled
But no need for worry, as
all before starts to collapse,
Generals believe be over by Autumn
or Christmas perhaps.
Murdering and enslaving millions,
as they overrun,
Reds burn their own cities,
denying shelter for the hun,
Hitlers well oiled machine,
begins to slow right down,
As Stalin moves his factories,
to out of range towns.
Nazis keep attacking,
as only they know how,
But stretched thinly on the ground,
winter has settled in now,
Can see domes of the kremlin,
victory looked so close,
May as well be a world away,
buried deep in Russian snows.
So nothing for it, must dig in
wait for the spring,
Writings on the wall,
offensive over, blunting their sting,
Then comes the counter,
sure as day follows night,
Red army attacks all fronts,
clad in cloaks of white.
The tide starts to turn,
in ruins of Stalingrad,
Germans are surrounded,
uniforms reduced to rags,
No food in their belly’s,
living off dogs and cats,
Paulus the general surrenders,
Throwing Hitler into a spat.
Killing still not over,
lots more bitter fighting to be had,
Stalin sacrifices millions,
in suicidal counterattacks,
Both sides face off daily,
in a mammoth slugging match,
prisoners were not taken
none left alive to catch.
So in the end Nazis crumble,
not beaten by a better army,
Never stood a chance,
once America joined the party,
Russia lost thirty million people,
Stalin did not care less,
Was only one real winner in
WW2 and that was the U.S.
By
David Kavanagh
In WW2 every life and sacrifice counted,
my poem is looking at the wider bigger
picture and is not meant to belittle or
negate any of the other allied nations
involved in the ultimate victory.
I leave the Christmas matinee
after five. Clouds sparse and dark
blue, fierce wind kicking up
from the North. Last night I rented
Midnight Cowboy, hoping it wasn’t
a mistake. The first time
I saw it I was spending the night
with my closest friend, who lived
in the dorm. Some guys
trapped me in the men’s toilets,
blocking the door, forcing the air
from my lungs. But how could I
not watch again, with goofy Joe
Buck, cowboy hustler who cares
too much to earn genuine coin
for sex, and Ratso hobbling
(like Amahl or Tiny Tim)
and that inconsolable harmonica
and Nilsson dragging me
to endless aching? How badly
I need Christmas this time
around. Something to keep me
from slugging myself. Ratso
follows me like a cozy shadow,
all crumby and disgusting. If only I
could kiss him on the mouth again
and again, crash the showers
in the men’s dorm and lather him
tenderly. If only I could go back.
If only my buddy had said
something. Just something.
Twelve rounds of excitement
Two rivals smiling in the middle of enchantment
The bell rang...
Both fighters were wild
Two rough hands still mild
The bell rang again -- end of first round.
Second round...
Gaiting horses, eluding kicks and punches
Baiting bodies, protruding hunches
Third round...
Fighters in merry-go-round
Hide and seek on square ground
Fourth round...
Faces smearing, eyes rolling
Bodies perspiring, allies chanting
Fifth round...
Feet hovering, foot work disintegrated
Temperature rising, hard punches connected
Sixth round...
Audience clapping; boxers hitting
Attacks jabbing, gloves slugging
Seventh round...
Whacking arm follows, gloves batting
Ulnar bone gallows, heads swatting
Eighth round...
The champ fighter grinning, nailing one hard scour
Second fighter fainting, flailing above the litted floor
Ninth round...
Stronger fighter grinning again with right hook
Left hook thrashing, down the second fighter of blind look
Tenth round...
Challenger flogging, kept on rising
Challenger pelting, the champ fell on floor gasping
Eleventh round...
Both warriors pummeling, whipping, jostling
Switching, clubbing, lashing, drubbing
Both fighters fell on adulated white floor
Before the ninth count both warriors stood tall
on wrestled floor
Twelfth round...
Last two minutes of peppering round
Both fighters staggering until the challenger dropped first and gaunts.
Champ still standing, waiting for the ten counts...
Last twenty five seconds of the final round,
First fallen fighter with a bigger heart stands
Champ dropped on his knees --
Laid flat on aproned, famed canvass
Ten counts numbered as confetti lands...
The winner and challenger standing in the corner, beaten and bruised
Bleeding profusely after winning a dream never cruised.
Those with time to the brink are on the irk.
Sincere toadies do not cast magic shirk.
People who have also been hugely hurt.
People tranced with the act of a flirt.
Firmly, it isn't the genial people who I denied.
They're apt as crucial as the things they hide.
This dreadful wrath has taken over my heart.
If I grasp them, chew the cud; my hair grows a dart.
You appreciate them, yet they overlook you.
It's tuff to fathom folks who love but fade too.
People who beget anguish and sadness.
People who say they care but flee in darkness.
I deplore slugging, furious, proud, and slander people.
People fear honesty; therefore, I sprawl the treacle.
Written: January 08, 2022
King-Size Bull Crap Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Charles Messina
How about this for OPENERS
You STOLE my heart away
With SIGNS of love and caring
A sparkling two way PLAY
You guys are all a HIT with me
You're WINNERS every time
Raising me in the STANDINGS
Such loyal FANS of mine
Since I was just a ROOKIE poet
Had myself quite a RUN
Feel like a real VETERAN now
This GAME is so much fun
Appreciate every seven STAR rating
This poetry fits like a GLOVE
Quite a CHANGE in one short year
Above AVERAGE kind of love
So I'm gonna keep on SLUGGING
Aiming for the FENCES
Hoping to hit a poetic HOME RUN
And SCORE with all your senses
© Jack Ellison 2013
Derek
Will you be able to bear it?
First weekend in May
And who the Yankees will play,
Bringing slugging Louisville woods
Tigers score if they could.
In the Bronx
Bombers get what they want.
While springtime proposes
A tradition featuring red roses.
In Kentucky, a Derby is always held.
Stories these four legged athletes do tell.
As three-year Olds
Being very bold
In weather no longer cold
Hanging in their stalls
Standing tall
Waiting for publicity and post time calls
Dreaming of a Seabiscuit run
When the mile dirt something is done
Everybody will be wondering who actually won.
Cheering having fun.
Applauding the one
Off to the winner circle celebrating in the warm bluegrass sun.
On the first
Your Marlins will have the thirst.
Using those bats
To physically challenge the politically hosted Nats
Retired Pinstripe General German American King George watching from heaven.
Monitoring the two-dollar betting
While conversing with Mr. Ruth
Getting the Highlander truth
And Mr. Martin will still stir the marinara sauce.
Screaming and yelling, “yeah yeah you are the boss.”
All this is summer entertaining.
Purpose is relaxing so who is complaining.
Good luck playing Donnie ball.
Fielding a civil warrior army whose names are not on any military memorial wall.
Instead, their remembrance could be in a record book.
Noticed if a fan decided to look.
As I end this seventh inning stretch
I do hear Cracker Jacks do make a nice afternoon mouthwatering catch.
This is a story that goes back some twenty years
To when with the Special Olympics I did volunteer
I worked with the older Olympians who were kind of rough
Caring for them by other volunteers was a job just too tough.
They were sixteen through eighteen and didn’t know their own strength
To keep them under control took me to mental and physical lengths
There were eight young men in my group this Olympic day
I was the only volunteer willing to work with them when the games got under way.
Keeping them together and where they were supposed to go
Required lots of cunning and running by this guy they called Coach Joe.
They worked me ragged and kept me at my wit’s end
But within the first hour we were all best of friends.
They liked to hug me and squeeze me and wrestle me to the ground
Always slugging me and hitting me every time I turned around
They were strong as an ox and didn’t know how easily they could hurt
I got bumps and bruises, one busted lip and was all covered in dirt.
As the medal ceremony began indicating the games were coming to an end
I was exhausted and spent and ready for my body to go home and mend
My Olympians got medals that made them all so happy and proud
They loved hearing the spectators cheering so wondrous and loud.
As I watched from the bench they gathered in a huddle
What were they up to now? I was a little befuddled
Then one by one they took their medals off and walked my way,
Placing them over my head; “Thank You, Coach Joe”, is what they would say.
Their parents and guardians had tears in their eyes
I’ve never been more touched by a simple surprise
Then we all held hands and the Olympic Song we did sing
For me, in my life, this was the sweetest of things.
.
-The Last Straw-
Sometimes he went too far
Shunning the sunlight, wading into the dark
swimming in places the sun couldn't find
shifting the wind to suit his own fall
speeding through life with his back to the wall
where he'd spit in the eye, and bend all the rules
yet with something to find, that was not of this world
spilling his guts
wading through fog, feeling the chill
unfurled in a dream
that was seen through a glass
while he looked for asylum in the black of the night
Boomerang words were like bats out of hell
to dwell in the mind and rattle the bones
of someone with soul, who feels all alone
changing their world from the outside in
Students mull over his words, taking sides
A skate on thin ice
Some call it nice........some call it sludge
slugging it out, from opposite sides
Some can't decide........ some claim to hate it
Fate has a name. Genius I'd say
Some of us stumble, and tumble right in
_________________________________
For Contest Sponsored By Amy Green 4/7/14
Genius
Resubmitted for PD's Contest: 101 in a Row #14
9/16/16
...He reformed the routing patriots,
formed a line atop a rise, Perrine’s Hill,
brought in General Knox and the artillery,
commanding the mass through sheer force of will.
He needed to buy time for the main force
to march on and join up in the battle,
the British kept coming, soon to attack,
convinced they still had the patriots rattled.
Before in battle the Redcoats just had
to flash their bayonets in the bright sun,
that was enough to scare Continentals
and assure them the battle was won.
But they were no longer facing such men,
the Americans had learned Europe’s game,
they did not flee at the sight of steel,
gave hard volleys once the foe was in range.
Britain’s field commander, General Cornwallis,
made several attacks to break up the line,
only to run into fire and rage,
with his Redcoats turned back every time.
They he tried to turn Washington’s left flank,
the boldest maneuver of the fight yet,
but the main force had come, and pushed forwards,
striking hard under young Lafayette.
Seeing there would be no quick victory
the British withdrew there forces back,
both armies in defensive positions,
the fight would become a long slugging match.
Soldiers hunkered down as across the fields
artillery thundered and cut loose,
both sides trying to break up the other,
their foe’s ranks they sought hard to reduce.
The heat was such that many of the men,
suffered and even died from heat stroke!
One man passed out and his wife manned his gun,
fighting on alongside all the blokes.
Then Washington sent Nathaniel Green
with artillery up towards Comb’s Hill,
a high position on the British left,
from which the guns could enfilade and kill.
The British saw their hopeless position,
and quickly began an ordered retreat,
marching north towards Clinton’s main force,
having blown their opportunity.
Washington saw his enemy leaving,
and sent Mad Anthony Wayne forward,
to harangue the British as they marched off,
cutting down men despite their good order.
And through the battle ended as a draw,
for the nation it was victory,
they’d kept the field in an open battle,
and matched the Redcoats in soldiery.
This changed the calculus of the whole war,
all knew battles would be more costly now,
England would no longer campaign in the north,
hoping for easier prey down south…