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.
...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…
Geena Davis in Cutthroat Island
Generously endowed with ***** and spirit, GEENA
Engaged a most unusual leading lady role. And DAVIS
Ever so skillfully brought the audience right IN
Not one scene was lacking and it was definitely CUTTHROAT
At death, she shaved her father's head for the treasure map to Cutthroat ISLAND.
Delightful costumes enhanced her role as a pirate, never better PLAYED.
And it appears that no expense was spared to make this fantastic movie. For THE
Violence, explosions, fistfights, and duels are blasting packed, UNPRECEDENTED.
If ever there were awards for the most fun movie to make, this one would be LEADING.
So often, her laughter reminded me of a child pretending, playing the pirate ROLE.
If I were a movie critic judging on entertainment in action, I would give Geena an A.
Naturally, I, who love fantasy, like her in this role; she was: pretty, happy, and FEISTY.
Clearly, she looked like a lady, but a lady would never fight a man with her FIST
Until she was seen on a wanted poster in Jamaica, there had been no SLUGGING...
Then, the pirate, Morgan Adams, and her newly purchased slave, Shaw, needed a GUN.
The Governor's militia started surrounding them; soon bodies were SLINGING,
Her getaway met stealing the Governor's carriage and fist fighting without a SWORD,
Relentlessly pursued, fired upon by cannons with the carriage teetering, SWINGING,
Over ruts, out of town, wide eyed, escaping, and laughing, the epitome of RUTHLESS,
Real passions for a good fight, challenges, and she made pirating seem fun! AND
Throughout the action, suspense captivated; scenery and costumes were BEAUTIFUL.
In the end, she killed her murderous Uncle Dawg in self-defense using a CANNON
She saved Shaw; remained behind briefly with the treasure. No guns were FIRING.
Luckily, they dove off of Dawg’s ship before it exploded, watched by every PIRATE.
After the explosion debris had settled, up from the ocean emerged both he and SHE
Next, a marker barrel popped up. The treasure was brought on board; oh, the WOWS
Divvying was postponed; pirating would continue with Capt. “Morgan” . . .gutsy to ME!
© Name withheld for contest
February 17, 2010
Poetic form: Acrostic and End Line Word
He’s got holes in his boots
and he’s wearing tattered old jeans
The state of his worn-out clothes
borders on obscene
He hasn’t had a home-cooked meal
in more than a year
You’re just too busy gambling
and slugging down cheap beer
You haven’t said you love him
or given him a kiss
without asking him for something
or giving him a list
You haven’t slept together
or gone out as a pair
and all those times he’s needed you
you were every where but there
So if you want to charge me
with stealing your man away
I think you ought to listen carefully
To what I have to say…….
You made it so damn easy
You just have to know
You might as well have wrapped him up
And tied him with a bow
You gave your man away
the day you cease to care
about who he was our how he felt
or what he had to wear
You gave your man away
don’t pretend that he was lost
You gave your man away
Neglect too has its cost
You gave your man away
and now that he is mine
I’m going to shower him with love
each and every day - come rain or shine
He’s needs a haircut badly
He’s got holes in both his socks
He can’t get into the house again
Because you changed the locks
He’s lonely on the sofa
He’s lonely in his car
He’s lonely at his buddy’s party
wondering where you are
You argued when you were together
You complained when you were not
You didn’t give him much attention
and resented any that he got
When it came time to make decisions
you always disagreed
You’ve never seemed to follow
when he tried to lead
You didn’t listen to his problems
or rejoice at his success
Then you have the nerve to wonder
why your marriage
has digressed
You made it so damn easy
You just have to know
You might as well have wrapped him up
And tied him with a bow
You gave your man away
the day you cease to care
about who he was our how he felt
or what he had to wear
You gave your man away
don’t pretend that he was lost
You gave your man away
Neglect too has its cost
You gave your man away
and now that he is mine
I’m going to shower him with love
each and every day - come rain or shine
He’s got holes in his boots
He’s got a big hole in his heart
And I’m going to fill that hole
And I can’t wait to start
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.
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.
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.
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.
had s/he listened to his/her friends
who’d done their time prior
in the dives & clubs that the city
churned, or to those that were still
slinging slop to the fishes gulping down
at all hours of the day,
be it the hottest of the year or
the coldest this earth could muster,
then,
s/he might have turned round &
done an about-face,
when given a favorable response
after interviewing,
for little did s/he know that the
job of tending bar
really did entail the need for a big
ear & all the time in the world
while doing the job that you were
getting paid for,
to do one that you weren’t.
but monkey is as monkey will do &
so behind the sloppy counter s/he stands
from “happy hour” to those last seconds
of the desperately distraught last call of
the night (early morn)
when the hounds have lowered their heads
& all those with a remaining sexual pulse
have stumbled off into each other’s beds
to wake up the next morning regretting
everything they did the night before
which they can’t for the life of em’
remember now.
& like the guy from “The Green Mile,”
s/he has sucked it all in again this eve,
her/his depression quotient maxed out like
the credit card(s) s/he’s struggling her/himself
to pay off &
as the final stragglers are escorted out by the
bouncer, if they can’t/won’t go on their own,
s/he signs one last prescription for her/himself,
slugging back that last shot
in a series of pounding blasts through the night
to hopefully send her/him into
sweet abandon,
the minute that s/he locks her/his
door behind her/him
when s/he steps inside her/his
dwelling.
.
-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
Inside fleshy walls, wallowing in youth,
lava coarses corrosive through peeled licorice
onward, fleeing the thundering stone
vacillating at the center of a man slugging
elderberry wine, to become both numb and Dionysus.
Yellow convertibles park on brown-banged boulevards
obstructing the ravishing, glacial blue hands. They stretch
unassuming, but firmly grab my empty arms.
Mannequin pale, those twin starved orphans,
offered the chance to grow into men, to feel
rushing gales of breath, trembling limbs of love!
Goodness, grace incarnate in a smile. Blue jeaned
angel, the deliverance of a self-loathing leper
naked in the shadows of his own shortcomings.
Ravaged, I stand stoic; an amorous, wounded statue
on call before her, a tragic hero in vain,
battered in body, in spirit, in moonstruck mind,
ill with the drawing force of four hoarse
scotch-swigging demons, poisonous jealousy
of a starry eyed Italian gondola captain. Who am longing I but
Nobody, wishing for a crack to melt into, or
a shatterproof heart.