Long Toothless Poems
Long Toothless Poems. Below are the most popular long Toothless by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Toothless poems by poem length and keyword.
I'm a small street,
a big street,
narrow,
wide ...
Street,
top street ...
Important,
imposing,
left,
right ...
Street of the dream, street suffered,
streets of the lost
prostitutes ...
Rua do Sol
at noon,
Moon Street
in the evening...
Abandoned dirty street
chit lying on the sidewalk,
intriguing gloomy street
burglar ... dangerous street ...
Street,
beach street
passers-by street
wanderers
hurried
elegant ...
Augusta Street,
Florida ... Farm
Avenue...
Avenue, Gasse
toothless alley
Vilha Velha ...
Street of the creatures
night lovers ...
Streets of cars and
of coaches ... streets
parallel, walkways
of fashion ...
Street from anywhere
streets that lead
to failure or to
success ... street
of people who live
in it and those
go through it ...
Street of shops,
fairs, circuses ...
Street of souvenirs and
forgetfulness...
Street, street ...!
abracadabra I wanna grab ya
don't tell Da and don't tell Ma
a Halloween gala
a ghost town, caw-caw
abracadabra I wanna grab ya
Abracadabrabroo me Godzilla now shoo
shelling out with toothless spider-Hue
got no candy? Duh
this ain't Malibu !
Abracadabrabroo I'm Godzilla now shoo
Abracadabri got the heebie jeebies Gartzie ?
well smezzle pezzle see this old machete
gonna hack your back
cuz I got the knack
Abracadabri got the heebie jeebies Gartzie ?
Ala shazam its a bloodlet moon fricassee
everyone is shakin' I don't care, Tee hee !
served them Grinch tea
now they all have to pee
Ala shazam, its a bloodlet moon fricassee.
Dad heard a scream from up stairs,
He ran to his son’s rescue and found him in tears.
“What’s the matter son?” Dad gently said,
There’s, there’s a monster in the bathroom and I’m really scared.
“It’s lumpy and hairy with a warts on it legs,”
“And on it’s chest it has what looks like two scrambled eggs”
“It’s belly hangs all the way down to it’s knees
“Daddy, daddy, protect me please!”
“It knows my name, it, it said it through a toothless grin,”
“It’s face is vomit green.”
“Enough,” said Dad smiling, “There’s no such thing.”
A rumbling noise came from the bathroom.
Go see Dad but come back soon.
Dad stood by the bathroom door for a while be fore he went in
And when he opened it his terrified son heard dad scream.
The monster had a huge wart on it’s bum
That's when dad recognized it and said “ Son needs therapy now How could you mum”
*For Lisa who gave me the title. I hope it is good for you as it was for me :-)*
They go the way they come
the way that would always make tears drop
silently, or with a wail
by the air, or by that they left behind
they go the way they come
toothless and helpless; all, but not their heart
strong, willed so promising
without the strength of their hands and feet
illogical, unreal
all the thoughts that thriftily pass their minds
unversed to us, "normalized"
squarely straight to us like in algebra
they go the way they come
without asking, nor with permission
and thus, this blood, this tear
would always flow, like cold rain, drip
today, the next, the rest
they chose to go just how they came
I mouth the words and giggle, shrill and bright
Just how you like it.
I make sure to take all the corresponding steps, to walk this sugar-glazed path
Tongue on your neck
I make sure everything’s in check, that you’re taking the bait
And I don’t want to make it sound like I’m a fisherman
As if you’re a particular catch
I’m just a kid, sticking a hand in the river
Grabbing the first fin I feel
I smile wide, toothless
You thrash in my hand, you can’t see, you can’t breathe
Your scales aren’t shiny, you’re missing an eye
Throw you into the water, let you hide in the deep.
You could never be like I wished
Scaled and icy, aquamarine
A beautiful thing, a rare beautiful thing
But you’re just a damn fish
You’re a force, an immovable force, a machine
Your eyes follow me and you want to
Play touch tank,
but you’re a grown man
So I pull a red herring and bite off your hand.
Feel the gears turning in your head
See your eyes as they think of the next step
You are a fake
And you know I would trade
You for a piece of paper with his name on it
You know it, but you still let me
Stick my fingers in your gills
Grab your fins and touch your scales
You let me play on all your strings
And then I let you swim away.
Red light
Shining bright
Such the sight
Twirling bright
After a toothless fight
Sticks and pucks
What's a Canuck?
Many asked
Listening to the Islander perform winning tasks
Potvin was the man
In demand
Waiting for John Sterling’s winning command
“Islander Goal, Islander Goal”
Coming from the ice that was cold
Trophy lifted, five times in a row
While Rangers bowl
Throwing strikes
John Sterling manned WMCA’s mike
Replacing Simone
Who was hanging up his phone
Wanting to hear
Nassau Veteran’s cheer
Near
Hofstra where the Jets train
And never complained
Since Broadway Joe
Headed to a Hollywood show
Knees were saying, “time to go”
Sadly, Stanley Cup was too violent for regular routine TV
And that is why we appreciate John Sterling’s decree
When Trottier did his thing
And Chico was the goalie King
Who was there?
John Sterling’s enthusiastic flair
Bringing victories home
For those alone
Enjoying the Cinco mayo championship run
Entertaining and fun
The wind is strong, blowing west
___ ghost night ___
Shadows of greedy beasts,
as leaves deep footprints
in wet soil
No decay process
... a spooky script
Darkness is their kingdom,
with foul-smelling
toothless gums
... they see you
even though the gaze is stiff
"an eye for an eye
tooth for tooth "
the coffin lid was never sealed
with wooden plugs
... the gates of hell are opened
28/10/2021
Sun :) - A-L Andresen :)
Copyright © All Rights Reserved
Hearthside: an Imagined Sequel to "When You Are Old"
by Michael R. Burch
“When you are old and grey and full of sleep...” ? W. B. Yeats
For all that we professed of love, we knew
this night would come, that we would bend alone
to tend wan fires’ dimming bars?the moan
of wind cruel as the Trumpet, gelid dew
an eerie presence on encrusted logs
we hoard like jewels, embrittled so ourselves.
The books that line these close, familiar shelves
loom down like dreary chaperones. Wild dogs,
too old for mates, cringe furtive in the park,
as, toothless now, I frame this parchment kiss.
I do not know the words for easy bliss
and so my shriveled fingers clutch this stark,
long-unenamored pen and will it: Move.
I loved you more than words, so let words prove.
This sonnet is written from the perspective of the great Irish poet William Butler Yeats in his loose translation or interpretation of the Pierre de Ronsard sonnet “When You Are Old.” The aging Yeats thinks of his Muse and the love of his life, the fiery Irish revolutionary Maude Gonne. As he seeks to warm himself by a fire conjured from ice-encrusted logs, he imagines her doing the same. Although Yeats had insisted that he wasn’t happy without Gonne, she said otherwise: “Oh yes, you are, because you make beautiful poetry out of what you call your unhappiness and are happy in that. Marriage would be such a dull affair. Poets should never marry. The world should thank me for not marrying you!” Keywords/Tags: Yeats, Gonne, sonnet, Irish, Ireland, age, aging, mature, love, separation, parting, divorce, winter, night, fire, bars, books, shelves, chaperones, dogs, mates, parchment, kiss, bliss, fingers, pen, will, move, words, prove
Kirk is a rooster in a suit,
yelling “freedom”
while polishing his boots
so no mud ever touches him.
He’s all mouth,
no fight,
selling rage like it’s champagne.
Vance skulks in the corner,
smokes his own shame,
pretends he’s the last honest man
while sniffing nostalgia
and blaming everyone
for everything he hates.
Kirk’s dreams are neat,
Vance’s are crooked,
both lie like toothless gamblers
pretending their debts don’t exist.
Kirk waves banners,
Vance waves ghosts—
same emptiness,
different dress code.
They think they’re fighting wars.
They’re not.
They’re clipping feathers
off each other’s parrots
while the world burns
and nobody remembers their names
tomorrow.
Politics?
It’s just theater for men
who smell like fear and whiskey,
and both of them—
roosters or ghosts—
stumble drunk
on the same cracked stage.
Scads of decades ago...
Metaphorical mama's yoyo
came undone, unleashing woe
doggone wizard of oz sought in toto
afore final picture show
would play staging pro
sic cuter determining
irrevocable fate oh no!
Approximately this time of year
(circa mid December) as
Christmas holiday doth near,
yours truly donning his unrecognizable
incognito custom tailored corporeal wear
well worn, timeworn, and careworn
birthday suit - most
frightening Halloween scare
transient boyhood lad
spooked with fear
courtesy grizzled old man,
who toothless doth glare
at much younger self
sporting scraggly gray hair
searches happy go lucky,
innocently naive, fancy free
and footloose spare
slip sliding away shy kid 'ere
timid, solitary, reservedly...
imperfect triangulated square
peg in round hole
quizzically, soundlessly... mere
roaring, reflecting, and ruminating
riddled with despair
methinks him foreigner, stranger, harbinger...
unavoidable, hellacious, catastrophic...
pitfalls he ain't aware
impossible mission to bolster near
deadly encounters with
maniacal mailer daemons
stealing his harmony, jollity, spontaneity...
knocking him out stone cold no prayer,
nor wing can revive, he will appear,
whence straddling prepubescence
agonizingly scared shuffling, skulking
sputtering... collapsing upon
his scrawny derriere
bony posterior subjected
necessary iron injections
courtesy Harriet Harris (mother)
licensed practical nurse buttressing
emaciated frame hiding her tear
filled eyes, while sole son
wishes grim reaper cursed harridan
freely clutching him onto elysian fields,
where abound spirits
of grateful dead everywhere.