Long Tubing Poems
Long Tubing Poems. Below are the most popular long Tubing by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Tubing poems by poem length and keyword.
It’s a robot dog with wheels some weirdo said loudly next door.
I am the Mars 2020 Perseverance Rover, space explorer.
I collect rocks and soil, and monitor weather, dust, and the air.
But not on earth, on Mars. I say this with confidence, a robotic heir.
Future hopeful human explorers may be able to inhabit Mars.
Thanks to me, even if they have to remain in bubble safe cars.
I have landed on the planet safely already with my lovely TRN,
And my brand new spanking wheel design is the living end!
For the first time ever, I am equipped to the max. I carry a drill.
I will scoop up rocks and soil, looking for microbe life. What a thrill!
A robot dog on wheels indeed? This sounds like an unlearned man.
I bet he would have trouble learning about science. I am not his fan!
Did I mention that I have a helicopter tucked under my belly?
We need to know if we can ever live there, and run our telly.
I can also test the oxygen production. This will help us plan.
Have to go. I am tubing up Martian samples as fast as I can!
Echoed giggles remain hysterical in Spring
Abundant greenery grows tall along the river
Both sides of the banks merge their foliage
Connecting branches together overhead
Trees become an arching canopy above it all
Creating shade for children paddling on
Now bouncing on the Cannon traveling down
On inner tubes absconded from some ugly trucks
Filled with air to carry them to who knows where
Dark waters run cold and deep in Spring
People don’t mind because the sun is hot
The river keeps them cool on Summer’s path
Soon to come again around the bend
The mountain takes a breath of fresher air
Winter melts along the river distance in a mist
A cold dip, another drink, steeped in mystery
Slips into a dream of drifting
Beyond the twisting and the winding
Spinning from the past into the future
We all sail on together in a song worth listening to
Ducks and fish and even bugs float by
Who just happen to be there for a good time
On the fly
Tubing through the narrows splashing
Try not to get wet while laughing
On an adventure bending space and time
It goes on for hours if not longer
Sometimes forever if you sing along and try
*Authors Note: Cannon River- Minnesota. I have never been there but I understand it is a blast.
She has gleaned the bare root of her captive.
Soggy dressings fall away, dissolve on calloused feet.
No point in changing these regretful bindings now.
He tells her he understands, that he once loved her.
She is beneath his nails, in his mouth, between his teeth.
Rubber tubing snakes from his torso, head, and neck.
Pushing out the slow but steady drip of his pollution.
Seven enamel bowls are full of him and need emptying.
She wonders how this room looks to him.
Final?
Endless?
He asks to be turned, says his right side has gone numb.
She pushes a moist shoulder, and he flops squid-like onto his back.
Touching him brings sour acid bubbling into her throat.
These walls will see his last hour, his ultimate reflection.
It has been one month to the day since they first saw each other.
She will quietly count him down back to that night.
Back to his first steps towards her.
She will watch the slow stream of him until he gradually drains away.
Down to the dregs, down to residue, down to the beginning.
As a child I was warned
that if I looked at the light
for too long it would send
me blind and yet
the stuttering flash
and eerie blue light
from an arc welder
that crackled deep inside
the factory would tempt me
to steal a glance into
its bright, menacing core.
Mystery and danger lurked
in the cavernous dark that waited
beyond the door. The gray brick
building was windowless and wore
no signage. The locals simply
called it ‘the welding factory’.
I would pass it every day
on my way to school,
look into its depths to see
spectral figures fluoresce
then dissipate into the dark.
Men in hinged metal face masks
and leather aprons would emerge
into daylight from out
of the factory door to have a smoke.
They looked like visitors
from another world stepping out
from their alien craft.
Their art was a kind of sorcery
stolen from the sun
or the devil.
On weekends
I would sometimes sneak around
and find bits of bent wire
and metal tubing with black
blisters growing out of stubs.
It was treasure for a boy.
I wondered what they made there
and stayed alert in case
some creature emerged
from out of the dark
with its red glowing eyes,
the same that sometimes
tormented me during those long
nights of panic and delirium
and unheard cries.
In the antique store
an old physician’s desk,
walnut and marble-topped,
holding the remnants of a life
of service;
stories etched in
wood, metal and stone.
Next to part of an old syringe,
a can of ether, half full;
it’s lid rusted shut
and a stethoscope
sporting the cracked rubber
tubing, of a bygone era.
A clock that once worked,
a necessity for any physician
or scientist;
it died at lunchtime.
A gilt-framed memoir
of time served abroad.
Life stories abound in old
antique shops;
shh...you can almost hear them
whispered tales,
ethereal remnants,
for the purchase.
2-12-2020
Enter the 'STRAND SELECT M,any form ,any theme' Poetry Contest
Brian Strand
This is a true story- no names have been changed to protect the idiot........
Nb- * - a car bonnet is a hood in the United states.
** - censored.
On my way back from the pub
(since real ale is my passion)
slowly wending my way home
in a wibbly-wobbly fashion
in the road sat something small-
I almost passed it by,
camouflaged in darkness
by a cloudy moonless sky.
I could tell it was a Hedgehog
simply by it's silhouette,
and if it didn't move real soon
would get squashed flat, I'll bet.
Just then a hundred yards away
a pair of lights appeared
heading our way at a pace
exactly as I'd feared.
Instinct kicked in, and out I leapt
to the middle of the road
waving my arms frantically as
I switched to 'Hero' mode.
He hit the brakes just feet away
and wound his window down
"get out the way, you Prat!" he yelled
but I just pointed down, and said
"Hedgehog!!" (which he couldn't see,
his bonnet* was in the way),
"Just hang on while I shift it, mate"
was all that I could say.
So, bending down to rescue it
still sat between my feet
my heart sank as I focussed in
then finally missed a beat.
The Hedgehog I had risked my life
to save it by removing
was, in fact, from off a washing machine
a piece of rubber tubing.
Not wishing too look foolish
I just hid it with my sleeves
and slowly walked off to the kerb,
the car began to leave.
Angrily into the air I kicked the pipe before me,
a big mistake- in his rear view mirror
the car driver he saw me,
and hit the brakes, then jumped out yelling
( I remember, although quite plastered)
"That's cruelty to an animal! Come here, you heartless person** !
In hot pursuit back up the road
he came- the chase was on,
I wasn't going to hang about, in seconds I was gone,
vaulting over garden walls and dodging through the gates
then out of breath I hid myself, till he had gone, I'd wait.
Mud splattered with my trousers torn I reached home, panic over,
the ordeal I'd just been through was a great way to get sober.
So next time wildlife is in peril, maybe I won't hurry,
I'll carry on and stagger home-
let Mother Nature worry.
The invention of the
Trunk-tree came from
his roots.
He wanted to help people
to discover new ways of
Water harvesting.
He used plastics to create
A hollow truck.
which would be the storage
tank for the water
Limbs and leaves with tubing
To channel water.
The limbs would spread apart
Using a fan like method
With large hollow leaves
the had filters so the water
Would be pure and uncontaminated
Areas within the truck deep areas
Beneath the bark would to
Collect the rains from the sky
And some leaves would gather
Sunlight to power man's needs.
Large natural looking trees
Rooted and grounded with
Steel and cement to provide
Addition support for off the grid
And even desert living.
Might the city dwellers envy
They to might find these trees
To support there existence.
If you’ve been to north New York,
or the western side of Vermont,
you might’ve head of a sea monster,
the vast Lake Champlain is his haunt.
The locals all call him ‘Champy,’
not to dissimilar to Loch Ness,
many folks claim they have seen Champ
rising up from the chilly depths.
Now I once thought Champy was
just a bit of local folklore,
until the day when my friend Pat
invited me down to the shore.
He had himself a fine speed boat,
soon enough we were on our way,
I expected a bit of fun
tubing and skiing on the lake.
But Pat had brought a big, thick rope,
and a bucket that truly reeked,
we motored to open water,
when Pat stopped the boat, and did speak:
“You know how I love my cryptids,
and that I saw Champy way back,
I have discovered, by hard research,
what the beast prefers for a snack.
“That bucket has rotted lampreys,
we’ll drag them by the boat as a lure,
once Champy gets the scent of them,
he’ll come up to our boat for sure!”
I though my friend was a mad-man,
as he set about his strange work,
we dragged a line for ten minutes,
then the whole boat began to jerk!
Pat slowed the boat down to a crawl,
and a Plesiosaur emerged!
One of the lampeys hid a hook,
the ancient beast loved unnerved.
“You need to drive the boat, my friend,”
said Pat as he undid the line,
then he leapt onto Chamy’s back!
Had the crazy fool lost his mind?!
The massive beast did try to dive,
but Pat just pooled back on the hook,
Champy abandoned thoughts of escape,
just one pull was all that it took!
Then Pat pulled the line to the right,
and great Champy began to swim.
I gunned the engine to follow,
but could barely keep up with him.
He drove Champ like a chariot,
gliding swiftly across the waves,
stunned boaters looked on as he went,
all too shocked to know what to say.
I drove, but in one hand I filmed,
recording this forever more,
because what could be more bad-ass
then saddling a damn Plesiosaur!
CONCLUDES IN PART II.
Put the headset on
adjust the boom mic
launch the software
in the manuscript write
outside of my room
lit with artificial lights
cold black night sky
over empty city now
seeking words hard
filled with many nouns
defining images sharp
that I would rather not write
motorcycles once owned
my first was small and red
oil mixed in gasoline
would only go thirty-five
took a long time
in college long ago
in winter of bitter cold
long walks or frozen rides
where ever I would go
much faster I would ride
on triumph somewhat old
a six fifty vertical twin
knobby tires wide
gas tank of mustard yellow
a bag rack of shining chrome
straight black tubing
with sharp bends
a chain that stretched
soaked in oil
at certain speeds it ran rough
setting timing switches hard
feeler gauges thin and straight
to set gaps just so right
timing was set by
turning mounting plate
under plate of chrome
held with steel screws two
a shafted triple next came
of bright blue and shining chrome
with fairing so very wide
and tall windshield
and a cargo trunk
on the rear
of bright white
and somewhat small
a nice seat
room for two
comfortable for
very long rides
times did change as always do
two wheels then became four
and room to carry
many more
looking out at cloudy sky
troubled by what once
I did ride
An old man and an old woman down an old river decided to float.
They opted to glide on inner tubes instead of in a boat.
In an inner tube, they heard…stress and troubles will decrease…
So in their inner tubes…on that old river…they searched for inner peace…
They were the only two on the river save for some geese and two fishermen
and somewhere along the river..they found their tubing Zen.
As they floated with the current through the straights and around the turns
They found the river is a good teacher…and there’s a lot to learn.
In a world where much of the of land is taken…every mountain, plain and hill
no one owns the river…and no one ever will.
On the river there’s no hurry…even though over obstacles the water climbs
you know eventually you’ll get there…they call it river time.
As you float along the river…you tend to forget any problems you have had
because in the middle of the river it’s impossible to be sad.
As you watch the waves, the trees, the sun…the clouds in the sky above
you realize how the river can teach us about love.
There are times when the river drifts apart…having different paths to weather
but the river knows there will come a time when it all flows back together.
The river understands how each part is important…no matter how big or small
for she knows that in the end….she is one river after all.
The river is quite confident in all the beauty she creates
And she knows, if you happen on her…the wonders that await…
So if you happen to see an old man and woman…
floating on a river near some geese….
chances are,
if they’re on an inner tube…
they’ve found their inner peace..