Long Spigot Poems
Long Spigot Poems. Below are the most popular long Spigot by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Spigot poems by poem length and keyword.
The American Library Association
implores cognoscenti tubby alert
for impersonators, who
call themselves Ernie and Bert
took a page from Sesame Street Playbook
oft times accompanied
by a Soundcloud of dirt,
boot none other then Pigpen,
(who worked for Peanuts),
and pay-dirt, though
dismissed, cuz he did not exert
true grit, plus more seriously scandalous
sordid details suppressed kept from press,
(which scurrilous breach of conduct)
involved said scallywag
violating more than flirt
discovered in prurient compromised activity,
where his skin flute encircled,
with an ambrosia girt
transgressions possibly affected
public television station benefactors,
and sterling reputation of bottom line, nor hurt
locker talk (albeit via exaggerated mainly
to make a profit) sounding proper
sanctimonious Cliff (hanging) notes,
asper faux expected by
a "FAKE" trumpeting prophet,
sans motley crue comic
stripped of more'n
motion picture PG ratings,
hence future lurid, graphic,
banal, ampersand
(&) dressing room banter
muted, disallowed, and banned
so storied characters birthed by Charles Shulz,
(who passed away prior to near canned
aforementioned indiscretion debacle)
returning amidst fanfare hoopla
much as possible grand
jour "Making Peanuts Great Again" hand
diddly restoring full metal paperback jacketed
glory and apple pie order land
ding rebirth of cherished popular iconic
easy to digest bookworm feed
which unexpectedly, inadvertently,
and horrifyingly
brewed ferocious breed
on par with the Alaskan Bull Worm,
whereat armed guards
strategically stationed
at libraries entrances indeed
aware voracious young readers,
would pay no heed
to any obstacle, and such unstoppable
ravishing knowledge
hungry kids did exceed
capacity security details dashed away,
faster then Clifford
the big red dog re: oh speed
wagon in toto (oz suppose)
to escape paginated bound woes,
but especially to flee bozos
not tubby confused with Bezos -
(the richest cat on planet Earth),
whose cashiered spigot flows
née gushes without any need to faucet.
Before the eye of god
Soloman bore the thunder of the crashing waves,
Beyond this entrance hung,
While observing not the changing tides
In sight of the eye of god;
For dawn equates no hope, nor faith
When the winds blow evermore,
And light expands in our daybreak fair
Sacrificing the solemn night;
Commit to us all that is good and fair
And forsake an innocent man
Waiting before the eye of god
Breaks slow a fog over this lands end,
When calm the tranquil brine,
Yet in his ship the old captain waits
To see the eye of god,
Oh muscle to muscle to ache with pain
As he lays deaf to his shipmates call,
Though from beneath this portholes outward lights
Came bangs of a rusty spigot;
And all those left to brave the morn
Will seize things moral and just
Before the eye of god
Soloman was transcended by the tick of his old wooden clock,
In the grace of an early morn,
As the quiet sunrise softly rose
High over the eye of god,
For he felt the sorrow of no promised land
When it touched his withered breadth,
And cold it was when waking eyes
Beheld no sacred light;
Yet visions haunt what prophets see
Pursuing their own desires
Before the eye of god
He considers not his own intent
Nor ponders his lost good-by,
But questioned words and fatal deeds
Are unanswered by the word of god,
For here wait the seeds of a moral life
Called out in his final breath;
While he listen’s long the bellows horn
As his life did slip away;
For silent was his dying pledge
In this, our morning light
Bound to the eye of god
Crashes through the waves our justice held
Blowing across this entrance hung,
Where lands and seas are momentary
And wait before the eye of god.
Faith is not for the sake of one
But lay’s for the worth of us all,
Then raises all to a distant call
And leave’s the rest to fate.
Oh boats pass on over waters calm
And sail to a far off shore
To behold the eye of god
By M.Norton
Form:
12/23/21
Accidents and intentions coincide
Meaning it was or wasn't of one's own design
Caused a mark
Girl you left me in the dark
You were in mine, but I guess I wasn't in your heart
So why keep you notified
This is bonafide
Day just begun or ended and it's closing time
In space, objects microscopic or of an imposing size
Not all fun and games like a kid on a pony ride
Is it wrong or only right?
Being addressed or getting thrown aside
This is where the road divides
Continually there is opposing sides
All this wear and tear is why it's showing signs
Of a beast with glowing eyes
Just when it was going fine
It all quickly took a nose dive
Important to be knowing why
Never could they work it out
Always suspicion and lurking doubt
So gullible and quick to go off word of mouth
This all has no worth and amount
Because you just wanted to see the other burn or drown
This is why there is no turnaround
Known rivals
What they did to each other is so vile
One ended up with no vitals
Endlessly goes the cycle
Nearby a frigate
Had to get water from a spigot
They never dug it or they'd dig it
Yet another bigot
As well as a useful or useless trinket
It was of no value or a valuable ingot
If it has alcohol, I'd most likely drink it
Damn cuz
Life has always been about more than an and one
For each other neither ever had love
Therefore there was always bad blood
Ironic, that due to their selfishness they died in a flash flood
Even though one of them had the black lung
Unwilling to heed others advice, what they did was sad yet dumb
Because they both had siblings, a dad and mum
A pair of mad dogs
Forever at odds
Often they each would ask god
If them or the other was a fat hog
Never mattered since it all was for a bad cause
As time passed on
Hedwig
Her house, a memory lane of sacred spaces:
the cobwebbed attic travel trunks,
high heeled shoes, pink taffeta gowns,
skirts that open into spinning parasols,
cool musty wine cellars lined with dusty bulbs
and oak barrels,
that hay loft for hibernating tortoises,
a courtyard of bursting wine caskets
that clutch Oleanders, Angel Trumpets,
palms and roses,
the outhouse under a giant mulberry
staining visitors fuscia red,
a library of leather-bound, five-pound encyclopedias,
and the bucolic world of firefly adventures.
In the grand silence of hundred-year-old oak trees
and the coo-coo-roos of pigeon chit-chat,
with a tin can in my hand,
I skedaddle to a spigot for cool off and fill up.
We snip the dead-heads off Hydrengea, Dhalia
and Sweet William at a baby’s grave,
to spur new blossoms
as we douse the thirsty mound.
Her dentures in a glass of water,
the hum-whistle-wisp of her tunes
fades in and out as she busies about,
with twisted digits brandished like radish knuckles,
and feather-light fuzzy hair floating about.
I taste paper-thin cuts of a salty sausage,
her hand-stretched strudel dough,
rolled with poppy and apple, cooling on terrazzo floors,
whipped egg whites and yolks that sweeten afternoons,
a mulberry syrup soda fizz tickles my nose,
Bouillon de fairne of onion, garlic and bacon fat,
her stock of soups with mile-long noodles,
steamed dumplings with jam, butter and powdered sugar.
Waste-not, what-not, want-not, never-ever-have-not.
My throat constricts for days
as summer in her wonderland ends.
After long goodbyes, tears waterfall, erupting
for three hundred kilometers.
She is the ordinary made unforgettable,
the builder of a scaffold to my heart.
This is how I carry you, grandmother.
On beginning to compose a new poem...
Assaying thoughts gambol,
scuffling as in an affray
née crushing, jockeying, stampeding...
demanding equal airplay
gushing as metaphorical think
spigot turned on full force airway
thru totally tubular cerebral
microcosmic aisleway
vesicular conduit fifty
plus shades of gray
exhaling sigh of relief, cuz
transcending writer's block
innovative talent with words
did once again allay
needless panic, where yours truly
finds himself punchdrunk
in some dark alleyway,
an unfortunate fate
Matthew Scott alway
avert reminding myself
to utilize ujjayi breath
hard driving gateway
into Pranayama practices
analogous to make
emotional transit thru
golden itty bitty
teensy weensy archway
infinitesimal impossible mission
to pinpoint areaway,
yet crisscrossing meditative
zen zone an array
of utmost nirvana
will never lead effortless
mantra buffeted concentration
not lead astray
and matter of fact
lightness of being
scaling metaphorical kickstarting
rah height aweigh
up yonder within
outer limits twilight zone
re: supraconsciousness
keeping at bay
non intrusive thoughts
ruff lee collaring, mimicking belay
boring bonafide dog obedience training
pant tum miming (think) begging
for limp bizkit, thus
canine loosens seat belt buckle
one notch braving violating
no trespassing sign
despite petsmart restriction
heavy populated wall tint
head nab yule Haitian
made Christmas benday
eerily resembling voodoo
cursed poppet summoned
if anybody doth betray
not being spellbound
hence, blithely skipping
reading future poetry (mine)
magic edict I dost bewray.
At sunset one summer evening I stepped outside to enjoy
the summer evening’s sunset and water the garden plants that were
dying in the draught. So I made my way towards the hose spigot at the
back of the house, and as I marveled at
the purple sunset
a dark writhing Figure appeared before my eyes, eclipsing the sun
and stopping me dead in my tracks.
It was not a dragon. It was not a Ringwraith. It was a Spider, a huge Spider,
busily at work crafting an enormous web two yards across, spanning the forest to
the bushes,
His labor diligent and instinctual like that of a master craftsman.
There I stood, marveling at Its pained yet natural movements, wondering when
some bird or wasp would descend upon the Thing
and rip out the Ugliness from the otherwise
perfect scene. But when I shifted my point of view
and the Spider no longer tarnished the backdrop of the sunset
I noticed It disappeared into the shadows around It
and would have been invisible to all but the
sharpest of eagle eyes. And as I blustered through an invisible strand of the
webbing,
exciting the Demon even further, I knew
that the Thing must go. But how?
I knew how. I would give to It the same thing that I meant to give the garden
plants,
for no terrestrial creature can long withstand the force of water.
So I unscrewed the spigot, marched around the other side of the house to grab
the hose,
and walked back to the spot where I spotted the Spider.
But in my absence the Spider, too, had taken Its leave
and I wondered if Nature was not made for men
to marvel at, or if in those moments
Nature does but laugh at us.
No one knows how it feels
To be perfect, to be without sin
No one knows how it is to be faultless
Flawless, the finished work
God is still working on each of us
He isn’t finished… we are not complete
When we are whole, without imperfections
We’ll be there with Him, in a home called heaven,
So sweet that homecoming will be!
No one knows what it means
To be perfect, to be impeccable
No one knows how it feels to be exactly
What He made us to be, entirely whole, exact..,
Totally unspoiled, blameless and sinless
God is working on our hearts and souls
Filling up our holes with light that pours forth
When we smile, when we cry, when we try
Light that like liquid hope, raining down through us
When we need to share our love, our gifts, our dreams
Everything that stirs up the wonder and peace
That God has inspired within our souls, our spirits
No one knows what it means to be perfect
No one who has ever lived has experienced this feeling
Except for the One He gave us to be the sacrifice for sin,
The Savior, the man, the king, Jesus Christ…
The reason I love and live and give, the reason I am…
Certain that this light pouring from my spirit
Is a light that began when Jesus Himself turned on the spigot
Warming my heart, filling my soul and showing the world
That His love is forevermore. His love is an open door
His love is the reason I know… Perfection is a word
Only Jesus can truly know or understand or represent
Only Jesus knows the meaning of completion
Only He could say the words, “It is finished”!
Der Zapfhahn has several meanings in the German language:
The Spigot, The Nozzle, The Tap, The Faucet, The Hose.
Without its definite article, the noun “Zapfhahn” is also the name
of a local pub in a small historic German town with discernible
vestiges of the Roman Empire near Braunschweig.
My earliest experience in this rather colorful establishment dates
back to 1990 during the period of the German reunification.
Zapfhahn is the place to go to imbibe alcohol of all variations,
and to have intellectual discussions (sometimes),
and to dodge errant beer bottles speeding through the air (occasionally),
and to sing songs (mostly in German) apropos to the crowd gathered.
Zapfhahn is the place to go to solve the problems of the world
or at least attempt to do this fruitless adventure.
Zapfhahn, with its medium and influence of alcohol,
is the place to:
adjust your attitude,
fall in love,
fall out of love,
get drunk,
find redemption (depending on your religion),
or just have a good time.
With fun had by all,
and with the night quite late,
I cannot wait to so indulge myself again.
And so, Zapfhahn with your mythic and alchemic
connections to the spirits of the night,
I surrender my soul in due course
so that I might see it resurrected
in its splendid glory.
I can only pray
and hope so.
Gary Bateman, Copyright © All Rights Reserved, Schoeningen, Germany
(August 29, 2014)
Ghetto tabernacles congregate
to hear the sons of Eli preachers beg and holla
Saying to the colorful captive audience:
they gonna get their piece of the pie in the by and by
It’s waiting in the oven ... baking in the sky,
and they will get their slice when they die
But as for the here and now,
the plastic preachers plead:
You poor souls gotta dig in your pockets,
out of your famine need
You must give til your wallets and purses bleed,
let your prayers show some real pain
Shout loud to the ritzy preachers,
whose flock live uptown
Render supplications to their starry cloth God,
whose wearing a tri-color striped suit
Listen to the high place shepherds say:
you ghetto sheep got nothing to lose
So shut up ... get fleeced,
and sing the money blues
Cash register ring:
Cha-ching ... cha-ching
*$*$*$
Soul sorry sing:
Slave quarters and plastic dollars;
living in the poor projects,
only got enough to get by
Preachers beg and tongue holla;
donate your welfare checks,
buy a piece of the air pie
Beware of those backward collars
always asking
for the silver coins and green dollars
Telling you
you’re gonna get your turn at the spigot
Selling you
a bunch of malarkey by a secular bigot
Slave quarters and plastic dollars,
just the same ole same old
Preachers beg and politicians holla;
the smart play: truth poured cold ...
put your pocket money back on fold
We've many differences.
You yearn for and demand respect.
I prefer to earn it but could care less...
if you respect me or not.
You shove a bullhorn in my face.
Force feed me your warped points of view.
You put blowtorch to my faith.
I believe in dialogue and I'm willing to listen, are you?
I fancy energy independency.
You don't mind drinking oil from the spigot of terrorists.
While spraying me with green philosophy.
All the while running just as fat as I am.
You're anything but lean.
I respect the sovereignty of my country and others,
With a big, beautiful mahogany door and welcome mat.
Just on the other side of a secure border.
I like a fair vetting process based on merit with some semblance of order.
You've a rose-colored revolving door from hell.
Bringing sprinkles of heaven and maelstroms of chaos and death...
onto my front porch.
I like giving all beings a chance at living.
Just like you and I were given...
Funny how you'll grieve over a stillborn.
but turn cold when the unborn are torn into pieces.
You hate my God and me for believing.
Want to cancel my peace and freedom,
You're an atheist but I'll defend your right.
to not believe in -then leave you to your peace.
Because I extend a hand in friendship,
You think I'm soft and a pushover.
Just in case you chop it off.
The other hand is clawed, and spring loaded.
Willing to put you six feet under the clover.