Long Yodel Poems
Long Yodel Poems. Below are the most popular long Yodel by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Yodel poems by poem length and keyword.
A Tribute to Slim Whitman
He led his horse towards a pool,
Near a lovely large cotton tree.
Far away, he heard the hooves
Of a thousand bison as they crossed
The dusty prairie in search of food.
Near at hand stood a large tepee
From where his lovely Indian emerged.
Dark hair, dark eyes. a beauty beyond compare.
She smiled but stood erect at the doorway.
Instantly, he lifted his guitar.
And in a yodel tune, he sang his love.
How oft he repeated his refrain,
"You belong to me,
I belong to you."
Finally, he put down his guitar.
Slowly, he approached her,
Tilted her lovely face up,
Their lips met in a sweet, lingering kiss.
Adora sixty, happy brave alive
Taste gypsy glory
Enjoy ...
Queen sound fault sweet
Chaos, silly mango rhyme
Yodel ...
Merry aging bloom
Found pearl petal bliss
Viola ...
Swing venus dance salsa
Smile ... angry lemon image
Humor ...
Photo, great woman - jolly funny
Still proud never trick crime
Charm ...
23/02. 2018
* Only five letter words
Sun :) - A-L Andresen :)
Contest, sponsored by: Edward McCall
Honorable Mention
The year you left, I studied astronomy,
mapping distances that could not soften regret.
Fireflies stitched the meadow with threads of chartreuse,
while cooling tea darkened inside a chipped teacup.
Far across the valley, someone began to yodel,
and the sound drifted upward through late summer.
I remember that particular summer,
how you spoke of stars as though teaching astronomy
to a child who answered every question with a yodel
of delight. I did not know such joy could ripen into regret.
The moon floated pale beside your forgotten teacup,
and moths circled porchlight halos tinged chartreuse.
Even now, that color, impossible chartreuse,
returns with the first heat of summer.
I find myself reaching for the old teacup,
as if memory were a branch of astronomy,
as if one could chart the orbit of regret
the way sound crosses mountains in a yodel.
At dusk, coyotes answer one another. No yodel,
yet something in their calls recalls that chartreuse
evening when silence first seeded regret.
Crickets kept time beneath the summer
constellations. We spoke lightly of astronomy,
sharing the last cool sip from a single teacup.
For years I kept that faded teacup
on a shelf above my desk. Its painted yodel
of alpine flowers seemed unrelated to astronomy,
yet every petal carried traces of chartreuse
fields and vanished afternoons of summer.
I could never dust it free of regret.
The curious thing about regret
is how it settles into ordinary things: a teacup,
the scent of cut grass during summer,
a song that unexpectedly begins to yodel,
a scrap of ribbon bright as chartreuse,
or a paragraph in a book about astronomy.
ENVOI
What astronomy cannot measure is regret;
it lingers in a teacup long after summer.
One distant yodel still glows chartreuse.
He was the Yodelling King of Whitby.
On a calm clear weather day
You could hear his practice yodels
On the cliffs at Robin Hoods bay.
He would stand there at the bar
In his Tyrolean feathered hat
With dark brown lederhosen,
Black cloak thrown over that,
To hold then all enraptured
When he got up on that stage
Setting female hearts a beating
No matter what their age.
His repertoire so varied,
From classical to rap,
With the occasional dance,
Sometimes breaking into tap.
Booked at the Alhambra Bradford
He attracted audience motley
All of his dedicated fan club
Some from as far away as Otley.
Then he strode on that stage
And his throat suddenly dried
And on the brink of stardom
His career withered and died.
They still talk of it in Eccleshill,
Bowling, Idle, even Runswick Bay
And many a tear is still shed
About that fateful fateful day.
He’s still Yodelling King of Whitby,
Still holds the pub under his spell
Particularly performing his finale
Of excerpts from William Tell.
Stardom no longer beckons
It’s lustrous lure dispelled
By the hurtful memory of
That Bradford performers hell.
Some times in his cups
It really gets his goat:
Yodelling King of the World maybe
But for the drying of his throat.
Methinks pilots are such superior mortals
For their ability to make metals fly like fowls,
And soldiers have such an impressive mettle
That makes you salute their daring prowls.
Surgeons are such a precise and thoroughly seasoned breed
That will dumbfound with details of capillaries and veins,
And commanders-in-chief such colossal powers wantonly wield
Till they addict themselves to honor and extend their reigns.
A charismatic preacher will yodel tunes and heal the lame
And win a hefty standing among their peers in a moment;
The teacher is the final light and bearer of the last opinion
And their learned views sail without a single opponent.
But the poet is the chariot of thought that inspires them all.
He’s the silent roar of the Boeing with the pilot in,
He’s the muffled ricocheting of the soldier’s Kalashnikov;
The unspoken overtones of the preacher’s condemnation of sin,
The subtlest incision of the surgeon’s authorized blade
And the president’s solemn inspection of the honor parade.
He's a cowboy in Connecticut
All Southern drawl and wide tooth grin
No matter how he tries it ain't no lie
The boy just don't fit in
He wears his Stetson hat, Alligator boots
Jingle Jangle Spurs with stylish Chaps
He dresses the part this cowboy work of art
Draws attention wherever he's at
He loves his Karaoke
Always requests a yodel song
When he's up on the stage folks don't know what to say
As he asks them all to sing along
You may wonder why he's not in Texas
He prefers it brisk and cold
Since he was born and raised among the Northern crazed
But it's the cowboy life that stole his soul
He has no cowhand to help with roundups
Local Yocals wouldn't dare be seen with him
He rides and ropes on his bike cats and dogs at night
With no horse or cattle to his name
Cause he's a cowboy in Connecticut
All Southern drawl and wide tooth grin
Where no matter how he tries it ain't no lie
The boy just don't fit in
strolling all alone at the ocean shore
embracing the cold breeze of a new sunrise
I feel the freshness of the soft and gentle wind
touching tenderly my whole being as you again fill my mind
I hear the yodel of the small waves
every melody conveys message
leaving behind the memories I’ll forever cherish
once in a while, waves walk towards me
I can feel the tenderness of their kisses
they wrap around with soft sand on my feet
great relief and happiness I feel
the scent of the peaceful ocean wafted on air
I smell its therapeutic power for all my pains
as I start to see a new sunshine
I’m sure tomorrow I’ll be fine
only scars are left behind
to remind me to keep stronger
as I’ll move on in my life
Nov. 25, 2012
First Place
Contest: Any Poem Goes
Judged:3/6/13
Poet Sponsor: My Greatest Poet PD
Fourth Place
Contest: Synesthesia
Judged: 5/26/13
Sponsor: Nette Onclaud
Dewdrops stream down boisterous
children’s freckle-strewn mischievous dials,
as they dash in cartoon costume faux denim
apparel amidst the pale yellow sunlight glare.
Marble stone button twiddle on a blue
rinse wrinkle t-shirt,
Sumptuous ice cream raspberry blobs
tantalise the cheeky taste bud imps
whose chocolate brown eyes swell with
every morsel glutinously gorged on.
Doting parents wantonly indulge
their dawn glow
offspring’s shrieks of antic wonderment,
the honeysuckle fragrance that
releases germ-stuffed
nostrils a portentous spring nectar booster
shot for folk and kin alike,
effervescent yodel from young sibling and the
young at heart zeal of golden realm guardians
elevated to this neon sign paradise,
purple sleeve lacquer layer hydrant, surreal spirit saviour
of parched embryonic throats.
Picklock to that universal perfume
cloud that hovers
over asphalt stain urn and
stoic mint green
pristine luscious lawn,
playground for the butterfly wing vernal innocent shrouded by an orange peel citric soft fruit haze.
Age span infant euphoric zoom on fountain spume,
where families in a Ferris wheel hubub rejuvenate the
lacklustre greyness of their far too often
monochrome existence.
Posted ; 4th May 2022
When cowboys sprawl 'round the camp fire after the days work is done,
They strum guitars and tootle harmonicas and sing to have fun.
Real cowboys don't sing Honky-Tonk or She Done Me Wrong stuff.
They leave that to rhinestone cowboys, considerin' it to be so much fluff!
Real wranglers sing about ropin' dogies and fixin' barbed wire fences,
Roundups, brandin' time and the magnificence of God's grand expanses.
They sing of home on the range, rodeos and dinin' on bacon and beans,
Cattle stampedes on stormy nights, the old corral and dance hall queens.
They harmonize about ghost riders in the sky who've met their fates,
Tumblin' tumbleweeds, cool water, tin cups and eatin' from tin plates.
They sing about bein' back in the saddle again and the streets of Laredo,
And belt out songs about horses named Old Paint, Ol' Dan and Tornado.
They yodel the cattle call and sing about when the bloom's on the sages,
And croon about their yellow rose of Texas and their pitiful wages.
Real buckaroos sing about Christmas in the bunk house and rye whiskey,
Cattle drives on the Lone Star and Abilene trails and a life so very risky.
They sing of the grumpy foreman and when the works all done this fall,
And tweedle about ragtime cowboy Joe and many a barroom brawl.
Real cowboys sing about ridin' the range, the chaparral and dusty trail,
And leave Hank Snow to warble about lost love, honky-tonks and landin' in jail!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
(c) 2014 All Rights Reserved
Cryptic contours charade,
Rousing riverfront raid;
Young yonder years yielding,
Prosperous peace prancing;
Taunting tale telling trite,
Icon imprints invite,
Clever casting charm cites...
Minds merge mingling motives,
Embalm emergent edge;
Rising riches restive,
Lofty lion-maned ledge;
Instruct inbound inklings,
Outline obvious oozing,
Niche nice new nurturing...
Fancy fish-tail flings flair,
Age aligns apt affairs;
Sense survival seeking,
Hope's hasty hurts hurling;
Intent invents impasse,
Observe optimum ooze;
Now nimble nascent noose,
Salty sea spray surpass...
Sculpt seaward sea-bubble:
Taut tensile tendency,
Obscure odd odyssey,
Raise roomy revelry;
Years yield yarns you yodel...
See sensuous story stay,
Charm cleverly cheers clay;
Raise rousing ripe refrains,
Indulge instincts ingrained;
Prime plot puzzling playground,
Trailblazer touching town...
Move myopic mindset,
Yesterday yielding yet;
Tease trouble's trying threats,
Hoist happy hustling hat...
Leon Enriquez
01 November 2014
Singapore