Long Squalling Poems
Long Squalling Poems. Below are the most popular long Squalling by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Squalling poems by poem length and keyword.
My uncle Dran was an odd sorta man
who never much cared for livestock.
But wouldn't you know he kept a pig he loved so,
and named the fat thing, Ham hock.
Of little he cared but for the pig's dinner fare
and a desire to keep him from block.
No butcher you'd see would stand a chance or a plea,
to separate Dran and Ham hock.
One day on a walk came a squeal and a squawk
as they passed a farmland flock.
As a sow named Bacon took to squalling and chasing,
to the delight of old Ham Hock.
Bacon was bought after a hard bargain fought,
she was Dran's hog for the takin.
And never could one part, the sow and the old fart,
know as Ham Hock and Bacon.
To this day down the lane, if you travel again.
there's a legend for books in the makin.
For the piglets o' plenty, of the pigs, Dran has many,
cause he won't eat Ham hock or Bacon.
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Pink Domino Contest
Sponsored by: Sara Kendrick
7/29/2016
Placed 10th
Squalling seagulls sip the morning sunshine,
They are indeed a lovely sight to see.
No ship will sail with that turbulent brine
But the seagulls just glide around the quay.
They are indeed a lovely sight to see.
They plunge into the stormy sea for food
But the seagulls just glide around the quay.
They are a harbinger of weather crude,
They plunge into the stormy sea for food
Spying sardines, they eat or be forlorn,
They are a harbinger of weather crude,
Ominous clouds gather, and me they warn
Spying sardines, they eat or be forlorn,
No ship will sail with that turbulent brine
Ominous clouds gather and me they warn
Squalling seagulls sip the morning sunshine
*I've been called a 'shrew,' told I am self centered, petty, and a few other rather insulting and invective names, so here is my rebuke.
Who plays the straight man for the one known as 'Schmoe?'
It's the Jester who juggles where ever Schmoe tells him to go.
Then there's Mr. DoGoody who seeks the spotlight of fame,
reproaching PS poets by pointing his finger at them in shame.
Three fatuous figures who lie in wait for Poetry Soup blogs
Croaking like three pompous bullfrogs in criticizing dialogues
Verbal abusers, slanderer of a nation, and he who prances
hoping to give Schmoe, his bro, the stage... the lackey dances.
It's a tragic case of fools rushing in where wiser men never go
A disease suffered by the egos of DoGoody, Jester, and Schmoe
A threesome pretending they're Red Barons in control of awacs
but they're just three old wacky muggins, Poetry Soup Quacks.
Ask a question and see what nonsense they will spew at you
Swearing their intent is righteous, and their cause is true blue,
but the more they protest, the deeper the holes they are digging.
A misguided clique always zagging when they should be zigging.
So if you bother to read what they write, just consider this...
the underlying meaning to their dribble shows what's amiss.
It's a game they play...one where they often make mistakes
Nuts have to be added to the batter while making a fruitcake
Now if you're thinking I'm just as guilty for some name calling,
I'm ready to be under attack with their whining and squalling.
I've already been accused by DoGoody of talking behind his back...
So here I am, you're all unblocked if you want to talk more smack.
sipping cider, and pumpkin spice
nurturing joy, autumn’s sweet price
blessing my heart, leaves keep falling
raining grace on my life’s calling
warm thoughts caress my soul’s intent
these blessings are why I was sent
autumn’s rhythms are gently stalling
raining grace on my life’s calling
jumping in the leaves, such wonder
my heart is beating like thunder
autumn’s gasping winds keep squalling
raining grace on my life’s calling
roaring fires and the crunch of leaves
reminds me that my heart believes
autumn’s ink, soundlessly scrawling
raining grace on my life’s calling
aching verses shed silent fears
singing God’s peace through gentling tears
merry skies steal hearts, recalling
raining grace on my life’s calling
Squalling seagulls sip the morning sunshine
Greeting new sun, spanning over vast sea
Wailing upon hills, watching freedom shine
Sprinkling over prairies echoes of glee
Greeting new sun, spanning over vast sea
Sailing air on pointed bills and webbed feet
Sprinkling over prairies echoes of glee
Grabbing fish, hunting crabs, feasting on treat
Sailing air on pointed bills and webbed feet
Circling green oceans, conquering blue sky
Grabbing fish, hunting crabs, feasting on treat
Reigning winds, above the cliffs, thrusting high
Circling green oceans, conquering blue sky
Traversing sunlit designs, boasting zest
Reigning winds, above the cliffs, thrusting high
Flaunting flexing wings of enchanting quest
Traversing sunlit designs, boasting zest
Glancing marigold scenes on amber arc
Flaunting flexing wings of enchanting quest
Eyeing gilded tides where golden rays spark
Glancing marigold scenes on amber arc
Wailing upon hills, watching freedom shine
Eyeing gilded tides where golden rays spark
Squalling seagulls sip the morning sunshine
December 10, 2019
Placed first: Seagulls poetry contest; Sponsor: Eve Roper
Ten syllables per line (howmanysyllables.com)
Placed 2nd: Strand special 9 by Brian Strand
Placed 2nd: Your best December poem poetry contest by John Hamilton
Iced feathered snow-capped hilltops
Frozen flaken iced ever squalling over grounds and rocks
Cold cooling winds against the windows
This lady snow capes sub freezing beneath them
Craving eye the sleepy silent snow
escapes on plowed powder
Caring I heard the attic
frizzling smelly frozen showers
Jon snowy tree hovers over me
That weather wise weather wise
Via yet the sun blanks and upper skies
Nature calls sweater winter
Snows on falls from the sky
This is weird and
I wouldn't like having winter around
Here yet son blanks in upper
Partly covered by the winter clouds
Still cold breast breeze silences me
Hearing those wins Sub-Zero burching
Deep into the darkness consorting
Much as I marvel the pliable horror Frost
The sound of snow slip plowing sow English
Crashing together through
Which came gustin gusting rushing winds
I crave the snow
It is a storm that let's snow skate
I crave the stormless snowy storm
I crave the arctic avalanche
Avalanche alarming rate sparkling I crave
Those the frozen drops of dust
Rain to snow falls dew now participates
12/18/32
Written words by James Edward Lee Sr © 2021
Squalling seagulls sip the morning sunshine
Crashing surf brings fresh crustaceans ashore
Flocks of gulls scavenge in the summertime
Seen diving and fighting, hoping to score
Crashing surf brings fresh crustaceans ashore
A rogue wave sends a feeding pair in flight
Seen diving and fighting, hoping to score
A treasure to witness and watch their plight
A rogue wave sends a feeding pair in flight
Flocks of gulls scavenge in the summertime
A treasure to witness and watch their plight
Squalling seagulls sip the morning sunshine
11/28/19
Contest: Seagulls Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Eve Roper
Squalling seagulls sip the morning sunshine,
in an eternal war of sea and shore;
there is something so haunting in their whine,
when a single call turns to a loud roar.
In an eternal war of sea and shore,
the seagulls- on wind currents soar and glide;
when a single call turns to a loud roar,
on beaches these birds gracefully walk- stride.
The seagulls- on wind currents- soar and glide,
such a view of serenity and peace;
on beaches these birds gracefully walk- stride,
of my lunch, I happily share a piece.
Such a view of ~.~ serenity and peace,
from graceful to a powerful diver;
of my lunch . . . I happily share a piece,
the seagulls life is that of- survivor.
From graceful to a powerful diver,
there is something so haunting in their whine;
the seagulls life is that of . . . survivor,
squalling seagulls sip the morning sunshine.
_________________________
November 29, 2019
Poetry/Pantoum/Seagulls
Copyright Protected. ID 19-1204-090-02
All Rights Reserved. Written under Pseudonym.
Written for the contest, Seagulls
sponsor, Eve Roper
First Place
I, a salty scarecrow, roam the shoreline
The moon melts soft like butter on the reach
Squalling seagulls sip the morning sunshine
While dropping clams to split upon the beach
The moon melts soft like butter on the reach
Thus drizzling heaven's hem with Hollandaise
While dropping clams to split upon the beach
The giggling gulls high-dive the dawning haze
Thus drizzling heaven's hem with Hollandaise
The bisque horizon christens bright, the morn
The giggling gulls high-dive the dawning haze
Oh such as this, should all good days be born
The bisque horizon christens bright, the morn
Squalling seagulls sip the morning sunshine
Oh such as this, should all good days be born
I, a salty scarecrow ... roam the shoreline.
~ 2nd Place ~ in the "Seagulls" Poetry Contest, Eve Roper, Judge & Sponsor.
Required line: "Squalling seagulls sip the morning sunshine"
( Syllables = 10 per line, counted at HowManySyllables.com )
All alone you sit there in grip of graveyard, hosting demonic thoughts,
Listening to cries of tombstones, squalling from lovers’ somber epitaphs,
Recounting how you chased prospects, innocent souls you courted,
Celebrating your maleficence building bonfires on the burial grounds,
Where you buried them one by one, watching the dance of demons,
As your stony heart laughed aloud, mocking the dead in total disregard.
You lured them with synthetic smiles, faux glamor of loveless stance,
Never meaning a word uttered, attired in stares of spurious glance,
As you prayed on them, then discarded; in landfills of broken-hearts.
Relationships initiated in springs of life, often parched in summer heat,
As passionless encounters burned in flame of hideous promiscuity;
Got washed away by the feisty storms churning scurrilous intensity,
Propelling hurricanes lovelorn, flooding realms of lovesome prairies,
When aspirations of your lust subordinated inspirations of pure love.
Old and fragile, you ruminate now, in frigid winters of your miserable life,
Speechless, motionless, fearful of your pitiful world swiftly passing by,
Haunting your eyes, as paranormal spirits, the silhouettes of the dead,
Mock your decrepit existence, shouting insanities at your grimacing face.
Remorseful beneath moon and stars, you inscribe your own epitaph:
She was a gloom of stygian clouds, shrouding arc of love on sunlit dawns,
She was a dubious counterfeit act; she was a vile curse on romance,
A cooing dove of morn she was not; a phantom of love she sure was.