Long Wing it Poems
Long Wing it Poems. Below are the most popular long Wing it by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Wing it poems by poem length and keyword.
The rich fare so poorly
in completely divesting of the gold chains
Losing it all ... casting away
the luster of the pearly platinum
family portraits on the baroque mansion,
spiral stairway wall
The copper savings ... deposit daub
straw crumbs,
that built the foundation of it all,
starts to totter and fall
When accumulations begin to fail,
put the diminished sprawl
money sign up for sale
Cashing out prematurely ...
losing it all
It's the fatal heart attack,
before the disappearing assets
hit zero
And the cancelled checks
start bouncing back
There are no bankrupt heroes
This penny dreadful thought
gives the wealthy
Freddy Krugerrand nightmares
Leaving the golden nest behind ...
to wing it pauperously alone,
is a wallet tear, safety net falling out
Parachute pursed lips don’t ever
reveal all —
Where the secret stash is mnemonic hid,
in case of an emergency landing
liquidity call ... phantom accounts off-the-grid
Covertly cashing out,
don’t leave much room for
mint condition doubt
Keeping a stuffed mattress attitude,
it’s poor manners to be
obnoxiously soup-line bourgeois rude
Maintain fiscal proletarian discipline;
looking fo’ mo’ easy-open vault,
capital idea opportunities
to reinvest the debt reset default
Staying on a silver cloud
at all cost
Means rushing headlong to a sky precipice,
bullishly fretting fearful
of a bearer bond, bear market free-fall
Piggy bank 401k squeals
be just another Poor & Standard
snout pocket poke to the profit-strapped chin
No-frills credit rating T-note bills
are being dividend, early retirement cashed in
It’s all down-low, bankroll covert action ...
‘cause everybody know
that being milk poppy poor is a withdrawal sin
Passion play
An old man’s Dream – Journey
Luck walks him from the hands of the Grim Reaper,
beyond the pearly gates of St. Peter,
across the desert sands,
into a carnival, the arms of a winged Angel’s, hands.
Two freaks on the stage, of the world’s side show
Within each, the other know.
A lost soul, trumpet silenced by very bad choices.
In his head – a con, a schemer – he hears inner voices.
Take this Beauty, wing it into survival, into a living.
Only himself, not to others, giving.
Another lost soul, in a glass cage, her wings clipped.
In a carnival side show, freaks, the audience is gipped.
He knows the price she will have to pay.
To save him and the game he will have to play.
Captivated by her ethereal beauty, love making evolves into love.
Beyond his greed for life, love’s conscience raises him above
the slim of his scheme, to do all he can to protect his dream.
The light of his love, surly – that moment - did beam.
His plan jeopardizes, places her into the hands of hell.
This winged Angel’s love, in her eyes it doth tell.
She accepts her living hell in order to save him.
The old man now tries to save her, prospects grim.
He falls, a plan of the man who owned this winged girl.
The plan failed, the old man’s life did not unfurl
His heart opened and did strive, repent the wrongs meant
as his soul looked out and upon, in sacrament.
One more time, he picks up his trumpet.
Sweet sounds come forth, beauty he let.
She glided, walking on by, again he met
his dream, there, before his eyes.
He runs with her, jumps from on high, she flies,
saving him with the strength and courage he gave to her.
Upon angelic wings, into heavenly bliss, together.
B. J. “A” 2
November 1st 2012
where is the decree
i follow you, you follow me
we all got forced around
one another found on the side of another brother's mother
this is the end if i may be so bold
i'm telling you now what i've already told
this is the basic end to the nigh in sight
let the death of me be the death of us all
a martyr? nah
just someone with a decent head upon their shoulders
i fight this holy war with myself
i put my feelings upon the shelf
then i let them gather dust
then i sink, i swim, i do many things
but none of them affect you
so why would you bother with a stinking urchin like me?
i fancy myself a lyricist
i write a rhyme upon request
if it's no good, then try again
that's what this has come down to anyway
not everything we put out is worthwhile
so figure things out yourself for once
because i am stuck around this verse chorus verse
i go onstage without time to rehearse
and wing it, believe it or not
is it any good though?
you decide
mother mary comfort me
oh wait, i already used that lifeline
now i'm just a tiny thread
dangling from this needle in your arm
i am your addiction
i am your heroin
you inject me like sex
but no pleasure comes from it
oh well, who knows
what we could have been anyway?
i'm just barely even trying now
bend over and give me a kiss
even if it's just as listless
as i may be
who are you?
i've nothing to say
who are you in different... less desirable...
social situations?
someone else
gulping down the nerves like pills with no water
sweat beads around your forehead
simply because your turn to speak is coming up
i'm not getting any better at this
really
a martyr? nah
just someone bored enough to take the fall
Military boots grip the pavement,
hair in a Sarah Connor ponytail
Got her sunglasses on at midnight,
waiting patiently for the right ride
to stop
And swing open an invitation
to rest her road wary bones
From the bend of the elbow,
to the cut leather gloved hand
waving a five finger salute
With a Rambo blade strapped to the thigh
of her shredded, faded blue jeans,
she has no hesitation riding shotgun
with a human unknown
Inside her deerskin vest,
she holsters a Beretta 9-mil
Trained as a sniper ... shoot to kill
Speaking politely to the stranger,
she tersely says: “keep your hands off the merchandise,
and keep your eyes on the road
And please, don’t make me have to say it twice ...
I'm saying this once, and I'm saying it nice"
With a nod of understanding,
they both settle in for the long haul
The ten thousand raven-strand beauty
says she’s going halfway to wherever
the occupant’s destination is
She remarks with a wry smile: “tonight ain’t such a bad day to live”
The driver assesses the situation,
and glumly decides that tonight ain’t a good day to die
So the hitchhiker exits from the vehicle,
thanks the stranger for the rest and the ride
After getting a bath, a meal and a good night sleep
from the local comfort environs;
she packs her gear, it’s time to be on the move again
There’s always someplace that can use her unique skills
Heading back to the edge of the road,
with no particular place in mind to go ... just stay on the eagle fly
Wing it on the sky dive
Hitchhiker, free and windblown —
With storm cloud eyes thunder bursting,
she only focuses on which car to next parachute in
Each language has it’s own beauty…
perhaps that’s why people travel the world seek them…
I imagine, just like me,
they would someday like to speak them…
But there is one language we may never speak…
it is a culture without words
It’s one we step outside to seek…
in the trees…the rivers…the birds.
It’s a language none of us can recreate…
as it remains, to us, unknown
because nature does not translate…
a language all her own.
When rain drops fall…when they first appear
Seedlings immediately know…
as the water reaches them they hear…
little ones…it’s time to grow.
And when the sun’s rays touch that soon-to-be flower…
as it awakens from its womb
the silent sunshine reveals its power….
when it whispers…time to bloom
The wind invisibly rushes out and in…
we try to comprehend but we have no chance
for we know only where she’s been…
as we watch the trees behind her dance.
Songs are the way birds talk, or perhaps the way they pray…
Do they always know the words…or sometimes…do they wing it
And though we don’t know what they’re trying to say…
we enjoy the way they sing it.
We know all living things talk to each other…
We know they’ve found a way
We know they’re conversing with their mother…
We just don’t know what they say.
But that’s okay with us…because we choose…
to enjoy their music and their dance
without recognizing the words they use…
like when we visit Italy or France.
In a way it’s like we’re in a foreign land…
Nature’s land of trees and fish and birds
and tho their language we may never fully understand
we can enjoy the rhythm of their words.
WRAPPING IT IN PURPLE
-For Prince
Black onyx handsome,
Small is beautiful,
Soft campy creature,
Definite in feature,
All chiseled, boned,
Talents honed,
And used for a king's ransom.
A royal purple mist,
Rained down on fans.
A thousand in the cast,
(He's never going to last).
Sing, Hip hop, do yer dance,
It's really yer last chance;
And maybe you'll be missed.
Let's do! Let's go crazy!
Count sheep, fall asleep,
Red flag, Swag dance, Sweet feet!
Tap it, Rap it, on a side street.
Keepers, weepers, of the dark,
One chance to make yer mark.
Sigh or sing, no time to be lazy!
Speed of light, day or night,
You know time can't be defined.
Check it off, count loves,
Hope you hear the cry of doves.
Yer wanting all yer extra time,
Kiss it in yer billboard climb;
A nanosecond dove in flight.
Burning up your axe,
Ending up an icon,
Pay your ticket, seeum,
In Hollywood's museum.
Paisley is the handle,
Stiff, dripping like a candle,
Just a manikin in wax.
No birthday's, no gray, or wrinkle.
In purple paper, wrap a lost chord!
You float above a cherry moon,
Wing it, sing it, it's your last tune.
Spirit vaporized, name that's canonized,
And all your data to be analyzed.
Precious purple, a periwinkle sprinkle.
Always cry for love, never cry for pain;
Elevé, do rise, caught up, surprised!
Don't stare sleeping there,
Death upon the stair.
No liquor, no last flicker,
No barcode, no heart quicker,
An April snow has left you sleeping in the rain.
By Edlynn Nau
© April 23, 2016
BOASTER RAP
Sometimes the guys used to sit around chugging bird-beer
Boasting of chicks they’d held dear.
Some British guy started in... Well, I was going out with some nice birds
We said - Oh man, don’t use those British words!
Listen, there was this chick once, lemme tell ya the tale.
She liked to chatter all day and flirt
But man she was one piece of tail
Her name was Robin - always wore a sexy red tee shirt,
And hey, I knew this Rhode Island who was always looking for a roll in the hay
Claimed she was a-looking for her eggs.... oh yeah
Well Man, birds of feather flock together ( Shocking ! )
We sure did a lot of flocking
Till she flew the coop with some guy, some pal
Who was a helluva snappy dresser - always kinda formal
Evening dress coats - used to swim in cold water a lot you know?
Crazy swimming dude, liked winter, ice and snow
She was forever trying to get me to build a nest
I said no way baby and strutted my colourful stuff – the finest.
Shucks, it wasn’t gonna be permanent, but I could wing it with her
Then go south, take a powder, disappear
For a while, you know - bit of diving and soaring -
And maybe sometimes scoring
British guy came back with this comment, like I never heard
Oh really? Well I have had a Rough-faced Shag
And a Northern Screamer and a Wagtail who really knew how to wag.
But now I concentrate on only one bird, my T-bird.
These Brits always try to over-awe.
You know, that really sticks in my craw
A Georgia country preacher stayed up to prepare for his sermon all night.
He put the outline on a notecard to eliminate any oversight.
It was going to be a doozy, and he couldn’t wait to preach that morning.
He was on fire for God, his pure heart full of yearning.
He was tingling with anticipation thinking of the day,
And stayed on his knees most of the night to pray.
Sunday morning dawned a day of perfection that God had created.
He headed to church with his wife and children, and felt elated.
God is so good, he thought in awe… he hoped someone would be blessed.
When the time came for his sermon, he pulled the notecard out of his vest.
He wanted to get the show on the road, but then he stopped in his tracks,
For when he set the notecard on the pulpit, it fell down between the cracks.
He had no way to retrieve the card, and he momentarily panicked.
He decided he had to come clean with the congregation, and not be frantic.
He said, “I had a fantastic sermon prepared, but my outline has slipped between this crack,”
“And I have no way of getting it back!”
The congregation roared with side splitting laughter.
The sound could be heard above the rafters.
So he decided to wing it without the notecard,
And poured his heart out before the Lord.
He did an outstanding job, and my Mother was so proud.
She praised God, and shouted aloud.
She told him later, she didn’t know what the congregation enjoyed most,
His sermon that had fallen between the cracks, or a message of which he could boast.
Sent down from Heaven, their jobs are sure tough
But they don’t fly away when the going gets rough
They rise to the challenge to bring back wonder and hope
Failure does not happen in their line of work
Cuz’ Angels, no Angels, they don’t sing the blues
Angels sing strong from the high mountain tops
Sometimes it’s a rock song to wake spirits up
Sometimes it’s a ballad when babies must sleep
Or a love song in country that just makes you weep
But Angels, no Angels, don’t sing the blues
They work behind the scenes to enlighten world faith
Always there when you need’em, our Heavenly base
They make house calls to heal another broken heart
Gatekeepers to the soul, they lighten the dark
The sky is the limit as only Angels can know
When times are a troubling, their first on the scene
Not afraid to help out or even dirty their wings
The tune that they dance to, comes from Heaven above
Giving rhythm and gospel to everyone they love
Cuz’ Angels, no Angels, they don’t sing the blues
And you know Angels can’t read music,
but they sure wing it well
As they learn from the Almighty,
Who swings with, the heartbeat of humanity,
From Heavens high hill
Angels sing strong from the high mountain tops
Sometimes it’s a rock song to wake spirits up
Sometimes it’s a ballad when babies must sleep
Or a love song in country that just makes you weep
But Angels, no Angels, don’t sing the blues
They just don’t sing the blues
No, Angels don’t sing the blues
Angels don’t sing the blues
The house is quiet again at last,
A week of fun and mayhem past.
Our visitors now are safe at home,
We sit and rest, together, alone.
Our dear friend Val came first,
Always a treat to have as a guest.
Left us a gift, we are still in awe,
Instead of selling, gave us her car.
Daughter Samantha came next,
along with her husband John.
They came in like a fresh breeze,
Settled in quick, soon at their ease.
Their holiday started the very next morn,
We did so much in just seven days,
It seemed like they'd been here always,
Like Val before, they left us in a daze.
Daughter Emma has booked to fly in,
Bringing our grandson Dominic James.
He's our four year old tornado
So in December it's fun and games.
Tracy and Barney not coming, that's a pity
This year they're off to Dublin's fair City.
Next year we pray we are on their list,
A holiday in Cyprus is not to be missed.
Until then we have been given a task,
No sitting on the patio having a bask.
John's left orders that are quite explicit,
Every Wednesday we have to wing it.
Wing It Wednesday, it has to be seen,
We've got to go where we've never been.
New restaurants to eat, new inns to drink,
A very nice challenge to make us think.
So while Hotel Timperley is without a guest.
We shall pick up the baton and take the test.
We have an Island we have not explored,
On Wing It Wednesday, we will not get bored.
© Dave Timperley 11 May 2015.