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Best Famous Teasing Poems

Here is a collection of the all-time best famous Teasing poems. This is a select list of the best famous Teasing poetry. Reading, writing, and enjoying famous Teasing poetry (as well as classical and contemporary poems) is a great past time. These top poems are the best examples of teasing poems.

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Written by Maya Angelou | Create an image from this poem


Your hands easy
weight, teasing the bees
hived in my hair, your smile at the
slope of my cheek.
On the occasion, you press above me, glowing, spouting readiness, mystery rapes my reason When you have withdrawn your self and the magic, when only the smell of your love lingers between my breasts, then, only then, can I greedily consume your presence.

Written by Maya Angelou | Create an image from this poem


 Your hands easy
weight, teasing the bees
hived in my hair, your smile at the
slope of my cheek.
On the occasion, you press above me, glowing, spouting readiness, mystery rapes my reason When you have withdrawn your self and the magic, when only the smell of your love lingers between my breasts, then, only then, can I greedily consume your presence.
Written by Barry Tebb | Create an image from this poem


 There was a hope for poetry in the sixties

And for education and society, teachers free

To do as they wanted: I could and did teach

Poetry and art all day and little else -

That was my way.
I threw rainbows against the classroom walls, Gold and silver dragons in the corridors and Halls; the children’s eyes were full of stars; I taught the alphabet in Greek and spoke of Peace and war in Vietnam, of birth and sex and Death and immortality - the essences of lyric poetry; Richards and Ogden on ‘The Meaning of Meaning’, Schopenhauer on sadness, Nietzsche and Lawrence on Civilisation and Plato on the Theory of Forms; I read aloud ‘The Rainbow’ and the children drew The waterfall with Gudrun bathing, I showed Them Gauguin and Fra Angelico in gold and a film On painting from life, and the nude girls Bothered no-one.
It was the Sixties - Art was life and life was art and in the Staff-room we talked of poetry and politics And passionately I argued with John.
a clinical Psychologist, on Freud and Jung; Anne, at forty One, wanted to be sterilised and amazingly asked My advice but that was how it was then: Dianne Went off to join weekly rep at Brighton, Dave Clark had given up law to teach a ‘D’ stream in the Inner city.
I was more lucky and had the brightest Children - Sheila Pritchard my genius child-poet with Her roguish eye and high bright voice, drawing skulls In Avernus and burning white chrysanthemums, teasing me With her long legs and gold salmon-flecked eyes.
It was a surprise when I made it into Penguin Books; Michael Horovitz busy then as now and madly idealistic As me; getting ready for the Albert Hall jamboree, The rainbow bomb of peace and poetry.
Written by Elizabeth Bishop | Create an image from this poem

The End Of March

 For John Malcolm Brinnin and Bill Read: Duxbury

It was cold and windy, scarcely the day 
to take a walk on that long beach 
Everything was withdrawn as far as possible, 
indrawn: the tide far out, the ocean shrunken, 
seabirds in ones or twos.
The rackety, icy, offshore wind numbed our faces on one side; disrupted the formation of a lone flight of Canada geese; and blew back the low, inaudible rollers in upright, steely mist.
The sky was darker than the water --it was the color of mutton-fat jade.
Along the wet sand, in rubber boots, we followed a track of big dog-prints (so big they were more like lion-prints).
Then we came on lengths and lengths, endless, of wet white string, looping up to the tide-line, down to the water, over and over.
Finally, they did end: a thick white snarl, man-size, awash, rising on every wave, a sodden ghost, falling back, sodden, giving up the ghost.
A kite string?--But no kite.
I wanted to get as far as my proto-dream-house, my crypto-dream-house, that crooked box set up on pilings, shingled green, a sort of artichoke of a house, but greener (boiled with bicarbonate of soda?), protected from spring tides by a palisade of--are they railroad ties? (Many things about this place are dubious.
) I'd like to retire there and do nothing, or nothing much, forever, in two bare rooms: look through binoculars, read boring books, old, long, long books, and write down useless notes, talk to myself, and, foggy days, watch the droplets slipping, heavy with light.
At night, a grog a l'américaine.
I'd blaze it with a kitchen match and lovely diaphanous blue flame would waver, doubled in the window.
There must be a stove; there is a chimney, askew, but braced with wires, and electricity, possibly --at least, at the back another wire limply leashes the whole affair to something off behind the dunes.
A light to read by--perfect! But--impossible.
And that day the wind was much too cold even to get that far, and of course the house was boarded up.
On the way back our faces froze on the other side.
The sun came out for just a minute.
For just a minute, set in their bezels of sand, the drab, damp, scattered stones were multi-colored, and all those high enough threw out long shadows, individual shadows, then pulled them in again.
They could have been teasing the lion sun, except that now he was behind them --a sun who'd walked the beach the last low tide, making those big, majestic paw-prints, who perhaps had batted a kite out of the sky to play with.
Written by Robert Francis | Create an image from this poem


 Two boys uncoached are tossing a poem together,
Overhand, underhand, backhand, sleight of hand, everyhand,
Teasing with attitudes, latitudes, interludes, altitudes,
High, make him fly off the ground for it, low, make him stoop,
Make him scoop it up, make him as-almost-as possible miss it,
Fast, let him sting from it, now, now fool him slowly,
Anything, everything tricky, risky, nonchalant,
Anything under the sun to outwit the prosy,
Over the tree and the long sweet cadence down,
Over his head, make him scramble to pick up the meaning,
And now, like a posy, a pretty one plump in his hands.

Written by Emily Dickinson | Create an image from this poem

Heaven -- is what I cannot reach!

 "Heaven" -- is what I cannot reach!
The Apple on the Tree --
Provided it do hopeless -- hang --
That -- "Heaven" is -- to Me!

The Color, on the Cruising Cloud --
The interdicted Land --
Behind the Hill -- the House behind --
There -- Paradise -- is found!

Her teasing Purples -- Afternoons --
The credulous -- decoy --
Enamored -- of the Conjuror --
That spurned us -- Yesterday!
Written by John Crowe Ransom | Create an image from this poem

Conrad in Twilight

 Conrad, Conrad, aren't you old 
To sit so late in your mouldy garden? 
And I think Conrad knows it well, 
Nursing his knees, too rheumy and cold 
To warm the wraith of a Forest of Arden.
Neuralgia in the back of his neck, His lungs filling with such miasma, His feet dipping in leafage and muck: Conrad! you've forgotten asthma.
Conrad's house has thick red walls, The log on Conrad's hearth is blazing, Slippers and pipe and tea are served, Butter and toast are meant for pleasing! Still Conrad's back is not uncurved And here's an autumn on him, teasing.
Autumn days in our section Are the most used-up thing on earth (Or in the waters under the earth) Having no more color nor predilection Than cornstalks too wet for the fire, A ribbon rotting on the byre, A man's face as weathered as straw By the summer's flare and winter's flaw.
Written by Ann Taylor | Create an image from this poem

Jane and Eliza

 There were two little girls, neither handsome nor plain; 
One's name was Eliza, the other's was Jane: 
They were both of one height, as I've heard people say, 
They were both of one age, I believe, to a day.
'Twas fancied by some, who but slightly had seen them, That scarcely a difference was there between them; But no one for long in this notion persisted, So great a distinction there really existed.
Eliza knew well that she could not be pleasing, While fretting and fuming, while sulky or teasing; And therefore in company artfully tried­ Not to break her bad habits, but only to hide.
So when she was out, with much labour and pain, She contrived to look almost a pleasant as Jane; But then you might see, that in forcing a smile, Her mouth was uneasy, and ached all the while.
And in spite of her care, it would sometimes befall, That some cross event happen'd to ruin it all; And because it might chance that her share was the worst, Her temper broke loose, and her dimples dispersed.
But Jane, who had nothing she wanted to hide, And therefore these troublesome arts never tried, Had none of the care and fatigue of concealing, But her face always show'd what her bosom was feeling.
At home or abroad there was peace in her smile, A cheerful good nature that needed no guile.
And Eliza work'd hard, but could never obtain The affection that freely was given to Jane.
Written by Emily Dickinson | Create an image from this poem

You see I cannot see -- your lifetime

 You see I cannot see -- your lifetime --
I must guess --
How many times it ache for me -- today -- Confess --
How many times for my far sake
The brave eyes film --
But I guess guessing hurts --
Mine -- got so dim!

Too vague -- the face --
My own -- so patient -- covers --
Too far -- the strength --
My timidness enfolds --
Haunting the Heart --
Like her translated faces --
Teasing the want --
It -- only -- can suffice!
Written by Rg Gregory | Create an image from this poem

sam swill

 sam swill
took a pill
went blue
ate stew
had pains
no brains
sucked a date
too late
swallowed stone
all alone
too proud
to cry aloud
scoffed cake
great ache
at work
went beserk
in a funk
did a bunk
hitch hike
stole a bike
empty car
not too far
flat tyre
on fire
skid swerve
lost his nerve
bang crash
frantic dash
turned bend
pond at end
police whistle
fall on thistle
jump in air
pond there
shocked scream
can't swim
hold breath
certain death
police leap
foot deep
soaking wet
vow they'll get
sam swill
off up hill
put in prison
doesn't listen
wooded park
hide till dark
cold and damp
sees tramp
teasing goat
steals coat
ten bob note
leaps with glee
cracks knee
old tree stump
painful lump
limps to town
knocked down
world spins
jabbing pins
dark wins
vague voices
harsh noises
throbbing head 
in bed
swaying forms
bees in swarms
sweet breath
not death
opens eyes
tries to rise
four police
won't release
mustn't curse
pretty nurse
sobs sighs
closes eyes
bones ache
thinks back
one pill
made him ill
bad stew
made him chew
date stone
this in turn
made him take
too much cake
all combined
wrecked mind
such undoing
led to ruin
learn well
from sam swill
pill and stew
won't do
date and cake
don't make
for good digestion
one reflection
a pretty nurse
you could do worse