Long Yukon Poems
Long Yukon Poems. Below are the most popular long Yukon by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Yukon poems by poem length and keyword.
I hate robocalls!
Inxs of recorded messages
transmitted automatically
to my telephone number
by automatic dialing device.
I turn off damn ringer,
and disassemble (carefully
as disabling a time bomb)
internal workings nevertheless...
telephone still buzzes
twenty four seven
eight days a week
automated telephone calls
digitally recorded message
perfectly spoken English
differentiation to distinguish
"FAKE" simulation
all bot impossible
totally immune to escape
gagging hospitable invective
electronic jawboning immunized
against antipathy, cruelty, enemy,
hostility, insecurity, pleasantry
Yukon run to tallest mountain
dive into Mariana Trench
get catapulted into
outer limits of twilight zone,
yet NEVER be free and clear
getting wirelessly zapped
with visual ad audiological
offal dregs and spam
(minus the green eggs)
oh... yes even after life,
while weightlessly
pinwheeling in limbo,
particularly during eternal sleep,
when dead souls repose
six feet deep
or corpse undergoes cremation...
yepper, infiltration into atomic core
blithely battered, jimmied,
cherry lee pitted, tweaked,
worse fate than return of Zombies
electrical essential existential
incorporeal surreal auditory ordeal
spurs indiscriminate human
to relish golden silence
spawning best selling novel
to flesh out fiction
Utopian treasured island story
winning unknown author
instant acclaim and glory
describing village people
livingsocial, free and clear
without annoyingly,
egregiously, infuriatingly,
maddeningly, quaveringly
vexing, nauseating, disrupting
blitzkrieg courtesy aggravating
trumpeting autonomous programs
hijacking brainstorming concentration
thwarting aim tug get back on target
(even when carrying on camping)
sundering coalescence
regarding colonizing black screen
aborted doomed genesis
of brilliant fleeting idea,
contributes to conspiracy theory
linkedin with ghost calls
thus one smart
generic garden variety
longfellow forced to
grovel along boulevard
of broken dreams
on a green day.
Any resemblance between above
hyperbole and living person
asked courteously by his name
of the human league,
I police tell the caller
purely coincidental!
Wine Through the Bassoon started the day
with applause!
we were having a party!
We wanted to get down!
Music, Dance, Food and fun!
we were gonna appoint the new positions
in the organization.
They then would appoint people to duty positions
and then the allocation processes would
make the scheduling of events known.
voted on by all members
the senior member would have first Dibbs on
the happenings
over dates and times
if the event scheduling were challenged
then the junior duty folk
could vote against the existing event.
We hoped that we had enough votes to
get the things done in an orderly fashion.
The secretary and associate members (4 of them)
were in charge of keeping track
we did the thing and approved our new organization with
the budget and schedule for the following year.
We were to host three concerts and
several sporting events
and Clown day was still in limbo
pending better wording.
The food was gorgeous and devine!
We had BBQ'd Country style ribs
that were so tender
you could use a spoon to eat them
aromatics that build a savory base.
Yellow onions, garlic, carrots, celery,
waxy potatoes Yukon Gold mushrooms,
and sweet potatoes parsnips.
the wines paired well with the pork,
Syrah/Shiraz, or Malbec
for those who didn't want pork
the beef was a perfect replacement
slow cooked cross rib roast
were tender and delious!Rioja and
Cabernet Sauvignon were the
accompanying wines
We desperately need your help...we have no light in the dark.
We are to young for voice...sometimes all bite and no bark.
We get pushed aside...and usually forgotten.
We just need a chance...we're not all rotten.
We come from all over...we are too many to count.
Our Mommies didn't want us...our burden was too high an amount.
We all search for hope...in pieces and bits.
We have been left unwanted...a bunch of misfits.
Please reach out and help us...don't let them forget.
God brought you here to help us...his love we all get.
We've been split up and broken...separated by state.
We pray that somebody will want us...until then we just wait.
Like Yukon Cornelius...and Charlie in the box.
We make up this group of misfits...of whom nobody talks.
Please give us a voice...make sure that we're heard.
We pray that you hear us...go forth with our word.
Contains More Than Kernel Of Truthful
alienation, expulsion, ostracization
from body politick
if member of society resistant,
indifferent, adamant, et cetera
despite differentiation
(across the figurative board)
intolerance opposing ethos,
asper unspoken social graces extant
(albeit manifested amidst diverse
livingsocial variations) within
rubric of global civilizations primal,
oral, nonverbal, et cetera codas
automatically decreeing manual Kant
instilled from cradle
to grave impossible mission scant
acceptance toward recalcitrant
challenging precepts via rave and/or rant
thus when born into whatever culture,
steeped with historical paradigm
one can protest superficial nigh cities
til ivy blue in the face,
or try to concoct a feeble rhyme
but culture club richly identified, endowed,
brewed from heritage long time
ago until the cows come home to roost
hence creative pursuits one direction
can turn to swiftly tailor
if harried styled
with perceived restrictive parameters
and cuss like a sailor
with song and dance routine
(perhaps appearing on Dancing
With The Stars), or
choosing subterfuge viz
writing nefarious malware code, where mailer
daemons spring to life, when computer code
following infinitely jesting illogic causing exhaler
(case in point - myself, hoot
ends tubby humorous) as yukon gauge
yet another Internet end user might experience
greater reason to rage
against the machine before
turning rogue gushing renegade, stage
jing anarchy against disparity
with equal pay, cuz a working wage
aint nuttin boot peanuts
so if strong willed, hook hairs
if you appear like a putz
just realize doggerel
of this pooch iz gaseous boot utterly without guts
and hangs around the junkyard
with other nerdy mutts.
EMERALD LAKE
I believe you want to wade in clear blue water,
But the Yukon presents a treetop view,
Of a lovely lake, emerald son, not daughter.
I was a traveler from the East Coast, one of few,
Who freely strode a horse around this paradise -
A two hour jaunt with my grinning spouse.
And if i could do it again, i’d pay a greater price,
Fly across this pioneer’s land, leave my sturdy house.
Are their colorful fish hibernating from the Yukon’s cold,
or dull - like pike or pink salmon? What does one beg
in this intense and bold, blue and green lake of gold?
I’d rather prance my high horse then search its dreg.
Lovely sounds of nature, broken by growls of grizzly bears.
Even the cliff’s crag, that shares its features - I am amused.
Yukon spirit with pure mountain air lifts away personal cares.
All of this paradise, sadly left, yet - into Alaska, we cruised.
5/16/2017
Brenda Chiri’s Mountaintop Lake Contest
Outside the storm is raging, heaping piles of drifting snow.
Inside I'm snuggled in my easy chair, the fireplace all aglow!
I've retrieved an old tome of poetry from my library shelf,
To spend an afternoon with noted bards to entertain myself.
I'll never tire of the lovely lyrics leaping from its pages,
Composed by inspirational poets down through the ages.
Those gifted folks awaken latent emotions in my languid soul,
Creating soul-stirring verse about life that they so fluently extol!
I delight in the lines championing ordinary folks by Edgar Guest,
And the ballads of Robert Service on his daring Yukon quest!
The works of The Hoosier Poet J. Whitcomb Riley I hold dear.
It's as if he wrote about my Hoosier boyhood of yesteryear!
The fire casts gloomy shadows about as I read Poe's elegies,
But my mood brightens reading Kilmer's beautiful poem, "Trees!"
McCrae's, "In Flanders Fields", as a lad I learned by rote.
I chuckle at the whimsical poetry that Lewis Carroll wrote!
I treasure my time with the bards and their poems in the book.
It occupies a very special place in my library nook.
Well, I'll put it aside since the cat has hopped upon my lap.
Dear old Simba and I will settle in for a cozy winter's nap!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired (© All Rights Reserved)
Only when yours truly busies himself...
Feigning to emulate NON GMO
garden variety English major oh just so
ho-hum, this ousted son and cingular bro
biological byproduct of papa's yoyo
after mama taut Peppy how to grow
big and become vein, her issuing blow
by blow stroke, thence pecker
imitated fountainhead
unleashing at apropos
time outburst analogous when an arrow
loosed from archer's bow
shooting off about hip height mo'
than bajillion microscopic
one celled lil longfellow
(Oh Henry...! wad art thou doing?)
just hmm... giving mutual sin O
Job whelp... subsequently
little squirt begot
sole son this all because sticky clot
hit bullseye right on the dot
nope, no where near size of ergot
spore, yet radiating
burning temperature more hot than...,
liquified gold prior
bitta bing bitta bang forged into ingot,
now just little more about fertilized
ova, I wanna jot
potential pluperfect parasite (me)
acquired, cultivated, fashioned...
one after another deft bon mot
while in utero until umbilical cord
severed than christened newborn tot.
Now fast forward blaw blaw blaw
when I began to clamor and claw
nope, cuz I ne'er learned how to draw,
the least significant genetic flaw,
cue laugh track and prerecorded guffaw
similar to popular nineteen
seventies television hee haw
laughter muted upon meeting
battle axe mother in law
another story... genre mccaw braw,
she excelled spewing vitriol out her maw,
thence I slowly must heard,
mixed metaphors and mastered...pshaw
modesty keeps me from bragging
yea - boot as a non sequitur
non secretor, yukon call me
the word wrangler outlaw
lo never cussing out anybody,
I can more easily whip out pistol
if captive audience
critiques mein arcane saw
jeering (matt speak feeble attempt
at wordplay - i.e. soldiering)
receiving affirmative nod
courtesy none other
than quick draw mcgraw
now ye butter listen (er... read) up
and don't blather and beast not shtupp
to conquer, when ya hear bit ching pup
that maybe be yipping faux ruse
to empty pocket inner empty cup.
Wind whipped his face, the dogs, they ran
Across bleak-white ice and snow,
Paid in cash by Rand McCorchoran
To Dawson, he would go.
Delivering mail, medicine, and booze
To a town still on the grow,
Earning tips from richer folk
Prospectors flush with gold
But the briefest hint of red arose
Catching his cold glance,
Broke the passage of the miles
Broke the driver’s trance.
The slight trail, it followed them
Like tiny, reddened ants.
It ran along up to the dogs
Stopping at old Nance.
The husky whined, and looked to him
Her body gaunt and thin,
From nine long years here at his side
Through toil, frost, and sin.
From countless scrapes and brouhahas
Saving each other’s skin
He no longer saw his favorite sight:
Nance’s toothy, husky grin.
He sighed aloud and cursed the world
Knowing what should be done.
He shed his gloves and searched a pack,
There finding his old gun.
His hand it trembled at the thought,
Thinking to distant dawns
When he and Nance took on the word
Back when it had all begun.
With just one dog at his side,
And a rifle worn and old
They marched up north, to try their luck
To seek out Yukon gold.
He’d found no ore out in the wild
But Nance, so proud and bold
Showed him how to carve a life
From the endless ice and cold.
The gun it slipped into his belt,
He could not even pretend
That he could even point it al
His oldest, truest friend.
He brought of Nance up on the sled,
And the others he did send
They raced to Dawson seven strong,
This would not be her end.
Aye pride myself
being sui generis
verb hose subject for a zoologist,
cuz webbed phalanges
branch handsomely
from mine feet and wrist,
where perforce great expectations,
asper the next greatest (I SCREAM)
scoop of the month intimated,
conducted under top secret
controlled laboratory conditions
with yours truly (as the de facto
par excellence)
rodent named "Oliver twist"
Lady Dedlock key ping
watchful eye within bleak house,
while Thomas Gradgrind
feigns tubby bad company
during these hard times
temporarily all quietest
lull on the western front
since Donald Trump
detente foretold by a palmist,
whereby said President
of the United States
feeling as an optimist
met with Kim Jong-un,
(cautiously side stepping morass,
viz hit blind side dare devil hoodwinking,
via awe shucks faux bully)
suspending noninterventionist
impact unexpectedly witnessed leader
of North Korea as multilateralist
on historic June 12, 2018,
summit minus linguist,
where fist pumping in Singapore
for unilateral negotiations
offloading nationalism
weighing down
figurative chest i.e. kist
by resplendent sun, where ma lounge
sotto voce, somber solemnly
sober ensemble re: joist
uniting this stately isolationist,
whose approximate
ten stone heft easy to hoist
merely sustains purposelessness
this poem without a gist
hence if Yukon spare one
(or more cruxes) lemme be fist
in line, though first, aye
would need to convince thee
this scribe doth exist!
The wind was howling and it was raining hard
My car had stalled on an old country road
Finding an old house in the darkness, I knocked
Asked to use her phone to have my car towed
She said It’s bad out there, my name is Laura
Please wait a second while I get the light
I live alone in this old house
I’d feel better if you spent the night
Later she came to my room
After dreams had filled my head
That longing in her deep green eyes
She crawled into my bed
She loved me like no other woman
There was a wild streak in her cries
And I found myself lost to this world
As I entered Paradise
The next day the storm was over
I left for town to get my car
It wasn’t quite finished yet
So I took a walk to the local bar
I asked the bartender if he knew Laura
If she ever came in to town
Did he know anything about her
Did he ever see her around
He said he only knew
Of the stories that others told
How her husband died in the Yukon
Prospecting for gold
How she cried when she got the news
That he was never coming back again
So she hung herself in that old house
In the year of 1910.