Short Bogs Poems
Short Bogs Poems. Below are examples of the most popular short poems about Bogs by PoetrySoup poets. Search short poems about Bogs by length and keyword.
Diatonic tree's,
slimy grease,
clanky careens-
and dodgy reefs,
slogs of sleeves
of Bogs of things,
one character breathe's,
another is obscene,
have you not heard of a ...
Hodgepodge of high-brow, hoity-toity happy hogs
Happened upon a wagonload of St Bernard dogs
In a hocus-pocus way they turned them into logs
You do not fool with a witch’s razorbacks in these bogs.
ALONG
loch-studded moorland
bogs and runnels
and o'er the Highland Pass
antennae alert
I'll twist the wind
to
feed
my
Bonny
Lass
The obsolete beast of prey
Out of the bogs and mists,
Is leaving his prints in the clay,
Proving that he exists.
A “mythical beast” indeed!
Fasten your portals tight--
The silver-scaled snake will feed
Somewhere on someone tonight.
Form:
Expressive plum-tipped lips have cursed the fog
enchanting senses- snaring drifting minds
the petaled blush within the mist of Northwood bogs
is fair Calypso dancing there amidst the sheets
her scent a whispering tale that held agog-
a gallant hero like Odysseus.
Emily Dickinson
My Heroine
My Friend from the bogs
The one who writes about frogs
Emily nailed it.. short and sweet, but so vivid it makes you think..
I am nobody - who are you..
https://www.poetrysoup.com/famous/poem/im_nobody!_who_are_you_41
PS Enjoy and seek her other poems out..
DAMO x
Ogre The Castle Moats Beast.
Snails and slugs
all kinds of bugs
earwigs, spiders and worms
jellied eels in slimy bogs you know
the kind that like to squirm.
anyone will be a treat for me
as on each I love to feast
I'm big and I'm lumpy
I'm fat and I'm bumpy
I'm Ogre the Castle Moats Beast.
Grrrrrr.
The bogey man is here
Uncle Gunnysack
No longer hiding in English peat bogs
The Bag Man who carries a bag and kidnaps those who don't behave
Do you hear him knocking
Why don’t you want to go to bed
He will take you away if you wont obey your parents
He will pull you up into tiny holes in the ceiling
A siren will sound when all is safe
Christopher Cricket
Lived out in a thicket
With his musical family
They slept by day
Each night they would play
At the Firefly Jamboree
A chorus of frogs
Encamped in the bogs
Would always accompany them
No need for a ticket
just come out and "kick it"
They will happily, welcome you in.
Daniel Turner
2/21/23
The bogey man is here
Uncle Gunnysack
No longer hiding in English peat bogs
The Bag Man who carries a bag and kidnaps those who don't behave
Do you hear him knocking
Why don’t you want to go to bed
He will take you away if you wont obey your parents
He will pull you up into tiny holes in the ceiling
A siren will sound when all is safe
My Ancestors slogged in Scottish bogs
Washing wool for the textile folds
And dancing with the spinning jenny’s
Apparently, there were some English blokes
That I can count among my folks
Well what do you know and what was the chance
Someone hailed from Normandy France
Add to these a lady of the Peloponnese
And this makes up ninety eight percent of me
Lock Down !!
The bogey man is here
Uncle Gunnysack
No longer hiding in English peat bogs
The Bag Man who carries a bag and kidnaps those who don't behave
Do you hear him knocking
Why don’t you want to go to bed
He will take you away if you wont obey your parents
He will pull you up into tiny holes in the ceiling
A siren will sound when all is safe !!
Calling
I hear the pipes from far away
drummers in fields play
highlands and bogs
pipers march
in dawns lifting fog
past forest and streams
overlooking stormy seas
the brave need no sword
In kilt they know who is lord
comrades and comradely
the knights of the highlands
know the battles are won
when in kilts the Pipers sound
aye lad's, I too march
homeward bound
Pugnacious crystals deflect penetrating light
Eyelashes dance along cheekbones come night.
Dirt-faced dignities transfix as delusions
Desolve dainty dandelions with nuclear fusion.
Sweat gathers in sleeping crevices along slacken skin
When deserved disillusionment wields unlikely fins
So set for disharmonization and discourse
Towards the mist of bogs and perverse intercourse.
She’s a witch Carol said. She gave me the evil eye.
I know witches do not do that, so I asked her why.
She casts spells and causes dogs to turn into pink frogs.
That has happened six weeks way down in the bogs.
She’s a witch said my mother, my sister and brother.
I was annoyed by them, their rumors feed off each other.
She is not a witch I said as I watched her dip an eyeball in her tea.
Well, on second thought, I thought, she really might be.
The corpulent witch was laughing herself practically sick.
Her striped socks made her thighs look unusually thick.
I stole the kid’s candies, and I had a smooth booking.
She bragged this loudly not seeing a child looking.
The child told other children, and they formed a plan.
They tricked the witch into becoming part of their clan.
We have her now! They said as they dragged her to the bogs.
Of course, six minutes later they were croaking as frogs.
Bogs Is Truly Awful !
Cold like old man bony
the wind whooshes,
through impudent rushes
empty, stony, hungry
It's special beauty
melancholic,
making wretched poetry
The night skys velvet
torn to shreads
you there
stumbling woefully
Your two pale feet
turning brown, brown
as Sunday gravy
And now you come to
understand
Bogs ain't for man,
the sad or even crazy,
bogs is best appreciated
(no matter what
you're told)
by poets
and the lonely
Form:
I thank the sun ...
The soil, the summer rain,
I thank the apple tree
The fields of golden grain
I thank the corn crops
And the pumpkin patch,
I thank the warm barn
Where new poults hatch
I thank Tom turkey ...
From down on the farm,
And the good old farmer
Who caused him no harm
I thank the potato fields
And the pecan trees,
I thank the earth ...
For bogs of cranberries
I thank this land ...
The sky and the air,
For giving all of us
These things to share.