Short Pipe Poems
Short Pipe Poems. Below are examples of the most popular short poems about Pipe by PoetrySoup poets. Search short poems about Pipe by length and keyword.
Deck of compressed wood
Free style trucks and real fast wheels
Landed flat on my back
By Robb A. Kopp
All Rights Reserved © MMX
My Mother liked to whistle
Which made my Father bristle
Although Mum whistled well
Dad thought it unladylike for a gel
To whistle, abyssal
The ladies all have a giggle
At girls with boobies that jiggle
But when they look down
They all tend to frown
At men with serpents that wiggle!
There once was a mobster named Clyde
Called a Buick Electra his ride
Then an old man named Dom
Made a mighty pipe bomb
And Clyde died being Electrafried!
Reeds are the cathedral
Pipe organs to the stars
You breathe in and out
You bend and sway
To the voice of God, but
Dip your hands
Among the moonlit lakes
A wispy finger tickles the air
But a breath exhaled
Chases it away
All that remains now
A sweet scent in the air
And now it's time
For another puff
On the pipe
just
beyond
his compass
ambitions lay
buried deep within long forgotten dreams;
then
the band
started up,
and he awoke-
seizing his chance,re-joined life's merry dance
The pipe major at the front led the way
On this cold and windy St Patrick's day
He was six foot and well built
A freak gust blew up his kilt
The crowd cheered at his manhood on display...
corn cob pipe cowboy
showing us huge joy
honest without being coy
not one to provoke or annoy
feeding him Hawaiian poi
eating beans with extra soy
loving him, my big handsome boy
corn cob pipe cowboy full of joy
More to the point
What is your crack pipe?
In the heavy storm
Of getting a grip
On life
One could be excused
For looking for a way out
An escapism
Some people keep busy
Some people spin out
On all sorts of things
So
Where is your crack pipe?
Large hands, coarse, are prayin’
Another day, layin’
Yet again! The pipe grows
Into the dark it flows
Neath the underground, toil!
Pushing dank sod till soiled
Into the lightless folds
Plundering till all’s cold
Ever thus, life unfolds…
(9/12/21)
Hi Yo, Silver...says, the Lone Ranger
When Tonto, gets deep into danger
From his tongue of Cherokee
He yells out "kemosabe"
Then they smoke peace pipes in the manger
Limerick 3 Poetry Contest
Sponsor Joseph May
1-28-2019
(99779 syllable count)
Mr Drain Pipe and Mr Water Tank
Oh I really do hope Mr Drain Pipe and
Mr Water Tank can
reach a
common decision about:
the best garden design (backyard at
this stage), the right shape and colour of
path bricks, the most suitable
hedges, the easiest grass to
maintain.
The old man in his pipe ignites
a cherry-flavoured forest fire
inhaling deep its sweet delights
The old man in his pipe ignites
forgotten sunsets, summer nights
the scents of roses and desire
The old man in his pipe ignites
a cherry-flavoured forest fire
© Gail Foster 24th July 2019
Evil flute
The evil flute was passed down
Generation to generation
Through the family line
Only a few knowing its power
Everyone else carefree
Until one who used to sit there
Holding grudges against his family
Threw them all in.
Wanting to be king and punish them in hell.
Old fiend
feeling rushes through this pipe-dream
gushing like the leak in Louisiana
leaking barrels and barrels of me
killing what surrounds as it bleeds
there is no fixing this enormous spill
it spews too fast, with its own will
Haliburton can't control the danger
my heart the only thing endangered
pipe dream
false hope
in a future
together
unrealistic
irrational
internalized
rose colored
clouds that
cover up the
truth of reality
there is no hope
for a future together
now
truly there was
never ever any
chance of a life
time together
it was all just a
fantasy
One man.
Treading the streets of his city,
large black overcoat blending into the night,
pipe bowl softly glowing red against the dark,
cane sharply clacking aginst the cobbles.
Suddenly an owl sweeps by,
white wings flashing softly,
quietly hooting.
One man,
one street,
one bird,
one night.
She never had a night light or cuddled a doll.
Nobody asked her to dance at the senior prom.
Nobody ever placed the gem of life in her hand.
Mr. Glitter always found her but was never a humble man.
Black angel chasing peace of mind down a glass pipe.
Sometimes death offers more peace than does life~
Night time elves were lured out of crevices and caves,
Hearing the melodic pipe of the Moon Beam King.
Charismatic, he also pulled pixies out of shallow graves.
See those three faeries dancing around the tree ring?
They were brought to the mystical place to sing.
Moon Beam King gets away with it. He is one of fey’s faves.
Healing and dealing
Stealing and reeling
Feeling the feeling
Wheelies down the spillway
Three’s a thrill
Another bill
Still...
I will!
Chill, with the window sill,
Skilled at raiding the mills,
Tilled until everyone who wants a chance can dance until-
The rest are nil haikus 4 reiki suing spells four ewe
I’ll hang with Jill ... s
This was one of the most devious of tricks.
They were sent to very prominent people in politics.
Pipe bombs were delivered to these persons by mail.
I was so glad each one of these attempts did fail.
By doing this, ethics have hit an all-time low.
After these infamous episodes, where do we go?
Based on various recent news reports.
or some kind of conduit
or some kind of hubble-bubble
perhaps a shower hose
my daughter has learnt to say 'door'
she enjoys knocking her head on them
she dances to anything
i woke up wrapped in the mosquito net
or maybe wrapped in the pipe where
schubert's songs came from
i yanked the window off the wall
haven't replaced nor fixed it yet
looking for a window of opportunity
Not impossible
Just possibilities
Curious minds unfold
Imagination vibes
Journey through expectancy
Hidden thoughts beyond
Decisions to make
Avoiding any mistakes
Give and take
Dreaming stories
Surprises within realizes
Logic through understanding
Wild as it seems
Wavy streams
One point to several theories
One thing after another
Each dream different from the other
Dare to imagine
Only to dream
Back on Baker Street -
pulling on a calabash pipe.
Paganini and Bach stream through
a cracked third-story window.
The Merseybeat’s…
the disaffected Pink Floyd years,
Mary Jane brain, mulling over
puffing magic dragons;
reading Sherlock Holmes
secretly.
Today, downloading
a picture of myself back then,
no pipe just a youthful smirk
as I strut down that busy road.
Sometimes I wish I still smoked.